


For Good

by Spacepolitician



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacepolitician/pseuds/Spacepolitician
Summary: Laurent flies to Ios for a job interview, and stays with an old friend for a weekend. Damen, unknowingly, reminds him of how different everything could have been. It just so happens, Laurent is falling apart.Laurent’s mischievous grin softened into a smile. He studied Damen’s face under the dim light of the balcony. Shadows were smooth around his sharp, brown features. Laurent turned his head away, a small smile lingering on his lips as he gave his cigarette a long puff and released the smoke slowly.“Idiot,” he muttered, getting a soft chuckle from Damen.“Laurent?”“Hm?”“I’m really,reallyhappy to see you.”Laurent did not turn around to see Damen’s genuine expression match his genuine words. He didn’t need to.“Idiot,” he muttered, again. And, then, almost by an irresistible force of truth, he said, “Me, too.”
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Laurent/Torveld (Captive Prince)
Comments: 297
Kudos: 422





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Please enjoy this Modern AU Captive Prince fanfiction where the characters are 9-10 years older than the canon, and the time of Auguste’s death is different from the canon. The tags and rating are based on my plans for the whole story as there will be mature or explicit content in later chapters, but all of those are subject to change. I will not place individual warnings on each chapter, but please be aware that most chapters will deal implicitly or explicitly with anxiety, depression, and abuse or its results. Also, the abusive relationship and the non-con is NOT between Laurent and Damen. I hope you enjoy!

Laurent hated flying.

The problem was not what he considered his healthy fear of floating 10 kilometers above the ground for six hours. The problem was everything else: the incessant, blaring buzz of the airplane engines drilling through his eardrums; every turbulence that seemed to toss around the words on the pages of his book, forcing him to start paragraphs over; the ludicrous leg space that was unsuitable for anyone taller than 160 centimeters.

He took a second dose of dimenhydrinate midway through the flight, trading motion sickness for foggy, sleepless drowsiness. The pill scratched its way through his esophagus. Even the water tasted strange in the air, as though it was liquified plastic.

Perhaps what Laurent hated most about flying was the nauseating cacophony of chewing, slurping, “sir, I need you to fasten your seatbelt,” children screaming, the chatter—

“Sir?”

Laurent’s head shot up, gaping at the woman in a tidy uniform who looked down at him with a superficial smile.

“We’re landing shortly,” she said, and pointed to Laurent’s seat. “Would you fasten your seatbelt, please?”

“Oh.” Laurent’s hands moved immediately. “Yes,” he replied, scrambling for his seatbelt. “Yes, sorry, thank you.”

They landed in Ios less than thirty minutes later. The plane’s tires thumped down on the runway loudly, followed by an even louder catching of the brakes. It wasn’t until the plane came to a halt that Laurent finally relaxed, letting his tense shoulders drop.

After the seatbelt signs were off, Laurent stood up on his stiff, half-numb legs, and reached for the overhead bin. He hoisted his backpack up on a shoulder, carrying his black garment cover bag — which contained his suit — in his other hand, and let the line of tired passengers guide him towards the front exit door of the plane.

Despite his general aversion to public restrooms, he gave in to his bladder’s demand to be emptied after over seven hours and entered the first restroom he saw in the concourse. He, then, passed through the customs rather quickly, despite how busy the airport was, and shoved his passport securely back into his backpack before he could lose it. By the time he had passed all security checkpoints, it was ten minutes past seven in the evening.

The hallway to the terminal was wide and well-lit. Without stopping, Laurent looked down at the colourful artwork that was infused into the terrazzo flooring. It had been three years since he had last stepped on the orange fish and deep blue of this airport’s floors. The last time he had been here, Sophie — his now ten-year-old German Shepherd — had lain down right on this spot and demanded stomach rubs. The memory brought a small smile to his lips. Not half a day had passed and Laurent’s hands already ached for Sophie’s soft fur. When he returned to Arles in four days, he decided, he would pet her as much as she wanted without complaint.

He paused after entering the lobby of the crowded terminal, looking around for exit signs. Was he supposed to exit from the southern or the western wing? He took out his cellphone to refer to his text messages.

A warm, all-too-familiar voice interrupted, “Hey, stranger.”

In the background, Laurent saw a pair of mirror-polished, brown leather shoes. Something jolted in his chest. He raised his head and, with arched brows, looked at the man who stood there with his hands tucked into his slacks, carrying the entire span of his tall figure like some ridiculously carved statue. His generous, bright, perfect fucking smile was so wide that Laurent wondered if it ever hurt his cheeks.

“Damen,” Laurent replied, unable to stop his own mouth from curling up a bit. The waves in Damen’s hair were a bit wild and too long on the sides. The idiot needed a haircut. “How the hell did you find parking?”

Damen shrugged. “With impeccable skill and irresistible charm.”

Laurent huffed heartedly, rolling his eyes. “Bet it cost you a fortune.” And as he felt Damen’s grin become more contagious by the second, he added with artificial apathy, “Idiot.”

Damen laughed. “It’s nice to see you, too, old friend.”

Laurent paused for a moment. Warmth spread in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it’s nice to see you.”

“Carry that for you?” Damen asked, simultaneously reaching out to take the garment cover bag from Laurent.

“Fuck no,” Laurent refused, out of principle. “Just lead the way.”

The two left from the western wing, taking the lift to the fourth floor parking garage. The first breath of fresh air wrung out a groan from Laurent. It felt good to be outside again, on land, with his legs stretched. Damen’s white, flashy BMW was unfamiliar, but not a surprise. Damen had always liked cars, even back in university when he was broke and could barely afford a bicycle.

As Laurent felt the creamy, comfortable leather of the seat underneath him, and stretched his legs in the luxurious leg space, he decided that he liked this car infinitely more than any airplane.

“Do you have any water?” he asked as Damen stirred the car out of the garage and finally into the highway.

Damen picked up an unopened bottle from the rear cupholder and handed it to him. Laurent tossed another dimenhydrinate, two ibuprofens, and a famotidine into his mouth. and swallowed them all with a single gulp of water.

Wide-eyed, Damen gave him a look. “Woah, don’t mix your drinks.”

“Everything hurts,” Laurent groaned and slumped against the leather seat. He looked out at the clear sky that was burning most vibrantly before losing its colours all together. “I fucking hate flying.”

“Try to take a nap,” Damen said, gently. “It’s going to be an hour before we get home.”

 _Home._ A lump suddenly began to grow in Laurent’s throat. This wasn’t his home. And he had begun to wonder, for a while now, if he really had a home in Arles anymore. He let his head rest on the window, and closed his eyes. The movements of the car were smooth. Laurent had forgotten that Damen was, indeed, a good driver. And that the roads of Ios were in good shape with properly spent tax revenues and no freezing cold winters to crack the asphalt every other year, unlike in Arles.

He didn’t know when he drifted into sleep, but it was a gentle hand on his shoulder that woke him with a start.

“Hey,” Damen said, smiling as Laurent rubbed his eyes, “we’re here.”

Laurent yawned into his palm, hearing the pop of the trunk. The sky was mostly dark, adorned by street lamps and building lights. He reached for the handle and hopped out of the car. They were on the edge of downtown, a street or two away from all the clamour of the city’s nightlife. Laurent bit out a half-hearted protest when Damen proceeded to carry Laurent’s backpack and suit, and led him to a tall, white apartment complex.

Passing through the sleek lobby, Damen waved brightly at the doorman and asked about his new oven which made the man comment happily about a perfectly cooked dish which had been so delicious that it had made his daughter eat her own fingers, too.

Laurent smiled at the strange Akielon expression that he hadn’t heard in years. Damen pressed “12” as they entered the lift.

“Feeling better?” he asked, looking down at Laurent who was standing close.

Laurent nodded, trying to blink the drowsiness away. He tilted his head to the side and rubbed his sore neck. At least his headache was gone.

For its prime location, Damen’s apartment was larger than Laurent expected. It was minimally decorated, furnished with tame shades of beige and green. A few healthy looking plants poked out of their pots from behind the couch, near the full length windows that led to a balcony.

“Well, Laurent,” Damen said as he replaced his shoes with a pair of slippers, “welcome.” He handed another pair to Laurent. “Make yourself at home. Everything that’s visible can be touched, used, or eaten.” He hung Laurent’s garment cover bag on the coat rack, and added contemplatively, “Except for one particular block of cheese that has been evolving in my fridge for the past few months. I don’t recommend messing with that thing.”

Laurent snorted a “thanks” and untied his shoes. “Where’s Jokaste?”

Damen paused on his way to the kitchen. “Oh,” he turned, raising a hand to the back of his neck, “uh, we broke up about a year ago.”

Laurent’s fingers halted. He raised his head to meet Damen’s eyes, brows pulling close. “You never said anything.”

“You never asked,” Damen replied, his tone casual and mild. After an awkward pause, he smiled, waved a hand, and turned back towards the kitchen. “It wasn’t ugly or anything. We still hang out. You might see her this weekend.”

 _A year ago._ Laurent lowered his head slowly, fingers forgetting about his shoelaces entirely. Apart from occasionally wishing each other happy new years and happy birthdays through text messages, they hadn’t talked much recently. Every time Damen had called, Laurent had been too busy or too angry or too sad to chat for long. Many times, he had ignored the calls all together. Damen was right: Laurent hadn’t asked how Damen — his closest friend (at least, he used to be) — was doing in a long time. Neither had he given an honest answer when Damen had asked him the same question.

 _Fuck_ , Laurent thought, _it’s my fault, isn’t it?_

“I did say you can do whatever you want in here, but there are more comfortable surfaces than the floor for dozing off,” Damen called out over his shoulder from the kitchen.

Laurent blinked himself out of his thoughts, shook his head, and finally removed his shoes.

“What do you want for dinner?” Damen asked, already busy chopping some vegetables.

“Not hungry,” he replied.

“Nonsense. I bet you didn’t eat anything on the plane.”

Of course he didn’t. Even the thought of eating on an airplane nauseated Laurent. He could barely stomach water in the air, let alone solid food. He put on the pair of soft slippers and walked over to the kitchen. Water was coming to a boil in a transparent kettle. Damen was cutting fresh cucumbers into small pieces. His dark eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks under the overhead lights.

“I don’t know, then,” said Laurent, leaning his hip against the counter. “Anything easy and fast that isn’t an evolving block of cheese.”

“Are you sure? No fancy Veretian frog legs for you?” Damen smirked.

“Fuck off,” Laurent said lazily, the side of his mouth curling up. He, then, lowered his eyes, picked up the glass salt shaker on the counter, and rolled it between his fingers absently. His lips turned into a thin line before they opened. “Damen, I’m—”

_I’m sorry that I didn’t know about your new apartment, or your new car, or your breakup, or anything you’ve been up to, really. Yet, you treat me like I’ve been a good friend to you._

“Yes?” Damen asked, glancing at him curiously.

Laurent set the salt shaker down. His fingers curled against the white marble of the countertop. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me when you haven’t tasted the food, yet.”

Laurent raised his head with a huff, and was about to say that he wasn’t talking about the food when his eyes met Damen’s. He realised immediately that Damen already knew that. Of course he did, that idiot.

“You have just enough time to take a shower before dinner’s ready,” Damen said, pointing to the hallway on the left side of the living room. “The guestroom is the door on the right. Has a private bathroom.”

Laurent nodded, pulling off of the counter to grab his backpack, and headed to the guestroom. The room was spacious, with a king-size bed and two bedside lamps. Laurent walked over to the wall to check out the impressionist art that hung there with a heavy, carved frame. The painting was of a man, clad in a black coat, waiting on a platform for an approaching train. The sky was gray and cloudy in the background, and the train’s two yellow headlights were soft in the thick fog. It was a nice piece, but it must have been a gift or Damen wouldn’t have hung it from the wall. It was too gloomy for Damen’s taste, Laurent thought. Instantly, he remembered: his knowledge of Damen’s preferences in visual arts were likely outdated. He turned away.

The bathroom lights were almost too bright. Laurent took a quick look at his own dry skin and greasy hair in the mirror before removing his contact lenses and stepping into the shower, letting warm water pour onto his exhausted muscles. He washed quickly and rolled his stiff shoulders a few times, hoping that the warmth would help to relax them. Then, placing his palms flat on the cold, white tiles of the wall, he stood still and lifted his chin, so that the stream of water fell directly onto his face. Apart from the sound of running water, the bathroom was completely silent. It felt as though he was entirely alone in the apartment; entirely alone in the world.

He had so much to do. He was returning to Arles in four days. He was _not_ going back to the house that, until a week ago, he used to call home. He could probably stay at a hotel for a few days until he figured out the logistics. The problem was Sophie. She was a big dog. He would have to find a place that would allow dogs her size. Sophie could probably stay at the house until he found another place. Or maybe he could leave her with a friend. The worst part was that he would have to go back to the house to pack his belongings. He would have to rent a car to move his boxes. Did he own anything that didn’t fit into a car? Probably not. It was mostly his books and clothes.

His throat was beginning to hurt, anxiety rising in his chest. He lowered his head and opened his eyes. His feet were flushed around the edges. He brought a cold palm to rub at the lump in his throat. _Stop it. There’s no point in panicking._ He felt his breath hitch slightly, and continued rubbing his throat. His eyes and nose were too warm. He wished he had a cigarette. _Stop._ He scrubbed roughly at his eyes a few times and took a deep breath before turning off the water.

He dried himself with a fresh towel, rubbing the water out of his hair. He wiped a clear stripe on the fogged up mirror and flinched. Without his contact lenses, his reflection was blurry, but he could see that the water had washed off his concealer, revealing a fading but unmistakable purple bruise on his left cheek. He leaned in, turned his head slightly to the side and prodded the bruise, hissing at the uncomfortable tenderness. He would have to cover it up before leaving the room. He could not let Damen see this.

He returned to the room and put on the only pieces of comfortable clothing he had brought. He was about to take out his glasses case from the pocket of his backpack when the screen of his phone lit up inside the same pocket, next to an unopened pack of cigarettes. He swallowed, putting on his thin-framed glasses, and, despite his better judgement, looked at the screen.

_[19:46] Missed call from Torveld._

_[19:50] Missed call from Torveld._

_[19:53] Message from Torveld: “Laurent, I’m sorry about what happened. And I’m sorry I didn’t apologise earlier. Please answer your phone.”_

_[20:18] Message from Torveld: “At least let me know you’ve arrived safely.”_

Laurent’s knuckles turned white around the frame of the phone. How dared the bastard call him. He never wanted to speak to him again. Even the thought of having to stand in the same room as him again made him sick. But he would have to, in a few days, when he would pick Sophie up and take his belongings out of the damned house, and leave for good. He shoved the phone back into his backpack, aggressively.

He, then, searched for the plastic bag that contained his razor, toothbrush, and the concealer he had bought a few days ago. He rummaged through the largest pocket. It wasn’t there, which was strange because he remembered putting it there. The bag wasn’t in the second pocket either. It wasn’t in the third. Laurent frowned. The bag wasn’t in the side pockets.

He felt his hands grow cold. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, rummaging though the first pocket again. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

And then it hit him as though a cube of ice had slipped down his spine. His eyes widened with horror. He had left the bag on the bathroom sink that morning when he had been distracted by an stupid call about his health insurance policy, and then by his burnt toasts, and then by Sophie’s refusal to eat her food, and then by the fact that he was running late.

_Fuck._

A knock on the door startled him onto his feet.

“Dinner’s ready,” Damen said from behind the door.

Laurent’s heart was beating as fast as a rabbit’s. “C-coming,” he replied in a voice much higher than his own.

How could he have forgotten the goddamn bag?! _Don’t panic. Don’t fucking panic_. He just needed a plausible story. Falling off of the bed? Slipping in the shower? Falling down the stairs? _Fuck._

“Fuck.”

“Laurent, are you okay?”

Presented with no other options, Laurent bit his tongue, cursed again, and reached for the door handle. He took a deep breath and opened the door quickly.

“Come eat dinner if you’re—” Damen’s brows flattened immediately at the sight of Laurent’s face. “What happened to your cheek?”

“Oh, I—” Laurent replied, “I ran into an open cabinet a few days ago.”

Damen’s brows arched high. “You ran into an open cabinet?”

“Yes,” Laurent confirmed, clearing his throat, “the lights were off. I wanted to grab a midnight snack.”

Damen’s incredulous eyes widened for a moment. Laurent began to sweat. He pushed his glasses up on the damp bridge of his nose, and tried to hold his neck as straight as possible.

“I’d covered it with some makeup earlier, but it washed off in the shower,” Laurent explained, trying his best to sound unaffected.

Damen’s gaze swung between the bruise and Laurent’s eyes. He, then, broke into a laugh, giving Laurent a start.

“Wow, okay, a cabinet,” he said, still laughing. “A poorly picked enemy.” He shook his head and waved a beckoning hand. “Dinner’s getting cold. Come.”

A relieved sigh left Laurent as he let his shoulders slump. _A fucking cabinet, Laurent?_ He followed Damen to the kitchen. The dining table was colourful with shrimp pasta, salad, and white wine. Damen added a final touch of black pepper and shredded parsley to the pasta and sat down at the table. Laurent took the chair on the opposite side, tying his damp, shoulder-length hair up in a bun.

“You're such a showoff about food,” Laurent said in good humour as Damen served a beautiful swirl of pasta onto Laurent’s plate. “You should go on that bizarre cooking TV show. The one where the chef yells at the contestants when they don’t add enough garlic or something.”

“I always add enough garlic.”

It was true. The aromatic taste of garlic was instantly detectable in the pasta. It took Laurent a single bite to realise how hungry he actually was. The food was absolutely delicious and the wine was a perfect complement to it. Laurent said so, and Damen smiled at the compliment, offering him more.

“How’s Torveld?” Damen asked, sprinkling some more pepper on his plate.

“Fine,” Laurent replied without missing a beat.

He didn’t want to talk about Torveld. He chewed deliberately on his final spoonful of pasta.

“He must be busy this time of the year,” Damen said.

“Yeah,” Laurent muttered. He really didn’t want to talk about Torveld. He swallowed, pressed the napkin to his mouth, and leaned back in the chair. “Thanks for the dinner. It was excellent.”

He offered to clean the dishes which was immediately rejected by Damen who insisted that his dishwasher only obeyed its owner’s orders. Laurent shrugged, finished his glass of wine, and returned to the living room. He sauntered to the sizable birchwood bookcase and perused the collection: Multiple books of ancient philosophy, classic novels and a few recent hits, an entire section dedicated to business and technology, another section to classical art. Perhaps Damen’s tastes hadn’t changed all that much, after all.

One item caught Laurent’s eye: a thick, blue, hardcover book of mathematics. Laurent’s name, with the title of “Dr.”, was printed on its spine. His name had been carrying that title for half a year now, and it still made him squeamish. He had published the book only three months ago, co-authored by one of his mentors at the university. A private smile curved Laurent’s mouth. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of the book. Why Damen owned a copy, however, was beyond him.

He looked over towards the kitchen. Damen’s broad shoulders moved smoothly as he cleaned the dishes in the sink. Once more, Laurent’s mind traveled to Arles. Sophie’s lack of appetite had given him a scare that morning. Of course, she had eaten the food in the end, but her mere hesitance was far from normal. Maybe Laurent needed to switch to a brand of dog food with less fat? Or were her teeth bothering her, again? Laurent would have to take her to the vet upon his return.

Anxiety began to simmer in his chest again. _Calm down,_ he tried to remind himself, _she’d probably just eaten too much food last night and wasn’t hungry this morning._ And if there was something wrong with her teeth, Torveld would take her to the vet this weekend. Anything Torveld was, Laurent still trusted that he took good care of Sophie in his absence. His heart, however, did not calm. His fingers ached for a cigarette.

“Hey, do you mind if I smoke on the balcony?” he asked, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of running water.

Damen turned his neck, looking surprised. He looked at Laurent for a moment before shaking his head. “No, go ahead.”

Laurent returned to the guestroom to get his cigarettes and lighter. A few new notifications had popped up on his phone.

_[21:30] Missed call from Torveld._

_[21:37] Message from Torveld: “Sleep well. I miss you.”_

Laurent huffed out humorlessly, shaking his head. “No, you don’t,” he said under his breath.

The balcony was cosily furnished with a small blue table and two chairs. A few pots of leafy plants were lined up against the wall. The weather was mild, and a soft breeze ran through Laurent’s damp hair as he untied it to dry faster. He lit a cigarette, leaning over the railing. The streets boomed with noise of the city’s Friday night crowd.

It reminded Laurent of his undergraduate years in Ios, about eight years ago, when he was young enough to survive on a diet of pizza and sugary drinks; when Auguste was still alive, and Sophie was still a puppy, and there always seemed to be just enough time in a day; when the nights were long and there was no greater pleasure in the world than trespassing into an empty private beach past midnight for a quick swim. The best part of youth was his inability to realise how quickly it would all end; how quickly he would have to return to Arles for his master’s degree; how quickly that would bleed into a doctorate program. And there it was: a picture of his life made up of seamlessly pieced together memories. Laurent let out a breath of gray smoke.

He was still young, he supposed. Auguste was young, too, when he died in a car accident on his way to Laurent’s graduation from his master’s program. That had taught Laurent how little youth really meant. It was a fragile thing. One was supposed to handle it with care and passion until it was either lost in time, or lost to death.

“May I join you?”

Laurent turned his head towards the gentle voice. Damen’s head poked into the balcony, like a giant, curious, brown bird. Laurent nodded. Damen pulled back a chair and sat down, stretching his arms over his head with a sigh.

“Tired?” Laurent asked.

“A little. Long day at work,” Damen replied. Then, with no judgement in his tone, he said, “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Started a few years ago.” Laurent tapped the ash off. “A mistake, obviously.” He took another puff, and turned to face Damen, his elbow anchored on the railing. “I saw you bought my book.”

“Of course,” Damen replied, and raised his large hands as a gesture of surrender. “I swear I tried to read it, but I couldn’t understand a word.”

Laurent couldn’t help the grin. “How come? Surely you’ve had a standard education on foundations of elasticity and differential geometry,” he said with dry sarcasm and an arched brow.

“Exactly.” Damen shook his head. “I don’t understand a word.”

“It’s a damn textbook, Damen,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Why the hell did you buy it?”

“Because you wrote it.”

Laurent’s mischievous grin softened into a smile. He studied Damen’s face under the dim light of the balcony. Shadows were smooth around his sharp, brown features. Laurent turned his head away, a small smile lingering on his lips as he gave his cigarette a long puff and released the smoke slowly.

“Idiot,” he muttered, getting a soft chuckle from Damen.

“Laurent?”

“Hm?”

“I’m really, _really_ happy to see you.”

Laurent did not turn around to see Damen’s genuine expression match his genuine words. He didn’t need to.

“Idiot,” he muttered, again. And, then, almost by an irresistible force of truth, he said, “Me, too.”

The city kept moving through the night, outshining the stars with its bright lights. The breeze was soft around Laurent’s fingers. He closed his eyes, breathing in the night.

Perhaps, he could let this weekend be the first break he’d taken in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the first chapter! This is my first time posting without having finished the entire story, so please bear with me if I take longer to post. Also, since this work is not edited by anyone other than myself, I would appreciate it if you would let me know if you come across grammatical or spelling errors. Oo-de-lally and goodbye!


	2. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! New Tags: Infidelity, Fluff.  
> I hope you enjoy!

A patch of heat tingled Laurent’s cheek, slipping past the blanket of unconsciousness. Laurent grumbled, rolling to his side.

“Sophie, let me sleep,” he groaned, eyes closed, and nuzzled his face into the soft pillow. “It’s Saturday.”

Sophie’s hot breath was now burning the back of his neck. Barely awake, Laurent blindly raised a hand to touch her, hoping to buy himself another five minutes of sleep before she would start licking him awake with little mercy. His fingers, however, passed through air, touching no smooth fur or damp nose. The heat persisted on the same spot on his neck.

Battling the weight of his lids, he opened his eyes slowly. A blurry, gray painting looked back at him from the eggshell-coloured wall. Laurent blinked, rolling to his back. The ceiling was lower than he was used to, and unembellished by carved frieze or plasterwork. On the other end of the room, a stripe of bright, warm light tore through the gap between the olive satin curtains, and sat directly on Laurent’s cheek.

The bed stretched empty on both sides of Laurent. His body felt well-rested, so much so that it made him suspicious. He never felt well-rested in the morning. With a yawn, he stretched his fingers and toes under the blanket. Sophie would have loved the silky sheets. He picked up his glasses from the nightstand and glanced at the clock on his side. It read “10:14”.

“No way,” he mumbled, amazedly. Had he really slept for ten hours? Usually, six felt like a victory.

He got out of bed and stretched his back, deciding to take a quick, cold shower. He shaved with the disposable razor Damen had given him the night before and brushed his teeth with Damen’s spare toothbrush. After dressing, he decided to skip his contact lenses to give his eyes a day of rest.

The smell of coffee filled his nostrils as he opened the door. The living room was basked in light streaming in from the full length windows. The houseplants looked fresh and vibrant.

At the kitchen table, Damen looked up from his laptop, clean-shaven and dressed. “Good morning,” he said, brightly.

“Morning,” Laurent replied. “I want some of whatever makes this smell.” He bent over the coffee maker and breathed in, letting out a pleased sigh.

Damen chuckled. “Milk’s in the fridge. I made some egg omelette but if you want something else, I can—”

“Damen,” Laurent cut him off, pouring himself some coffee, “I eat burnt toast for breakfast. This looks like a feast to me.”

“You’re chipper today,” Damen commented as Laurent sat down with his plate and white mug.

Laurent hummed, taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t remember the last time I slept this well without being blackout drunk,” he said, and nodded towards Damen’s laptop. “Are you working?”

“I’m almost done. I’m taking Monday off, so I just want to make sure everything is ready for my coworkers to take over.”

Laurent frowned. “You don’t need to take Monday off. It’s not like I don’t know my way around the city.”

“Well, it’s already done,” Damen said, typing away on his laptop. “And, _maybe_ I just want to spend more time with a blond bastard who shows up once every three years like some rare solar eclipse.” He raised an accusatory brow at Laurent who scoffed over the rim of his mug.

It felt nice. It felt nice in the way vacations did — a moment of serene disconnection from one’s own world; putting behind all responsibilities just to gaze over a lake, or stand atop a mountain. And just like a vacation, the beauty of the moment came with the fear of an imminent end to everything before one was quite prepared to let go. That was the quality of sitting across the breakfast table from Damen. It was a pleasure Laurent knew would slip away too soon. It would slip away like it had before, like it did every single time.

“So, what’s your plan for today?”

Dragged out of his reverie, Laurent took a bite of the omelette and shrugged, “I need to stop by at the bank, and then the drugstore.”

“Nikandros and Jokaste want to see you.” Damen closed his laptop, and rolled his eyes as Laurent glared at him. “What? You expected me not to tell them you’re coming?” he said, kicking Laurent under the table. “Don't be such a prick. This is an opportunity to see your _friends_.”

Laurent looked towards the balcony. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Nikandros and Jokaste. It was that he hadn’t spoken to them in a long time; hadn’t seen them in even longer. So long, in fact, that he didn’t know if they would still look the same as before.

“I don’t know how to ‘catch up’ with people,” Laurent said quietly, as though it was a private confession.

“You don’t always need to catch up. Just enjoy their company, and they will enjoy yours,” Damen replied, shaking his head. “You always overthink everything.”

Damen was right, probably. Laurent did tend to overthink things. So what if they looked different and had new jobs and new families? Laurent still loved them, he realised suddenly, like a revelation. He really did want to see Nikandros and Jokaste.

He cleaned the dishes and smoked on the balcony as Damen made a phone call to a coworker and drank another cup of coffee. Half an hour later, they put on their shoes and stepped out.

It was a warm day, with all the blinding sunlight of spring in Ios. It was fortunate that Laurent hadn’t forgotten his sunscreen, at least, or it would have taken less than an hour for him to burn into a red, flaking mess. That was the downside of Akielos for people of Laurent’s complexion — they would have to go through tubes of sunscreen twice as fast as toothpaste.

“It’s a nice day.” Damen put on his sunglasses, his olive skin gleaming like satin. “Let’s walk.”

They stopped by the bank for Laurent to exchange some Veretian currency, and headed to the drugstore. Laurent walked directly to the makeup aisle, looking over at what seemed to him like too many fucking brands of the same products, and picked up the lightest shade of concealer he could find.

Next to him, Damen picked up a rosegold package and waved it at Laurent with a smirk. “How about some mascara?”

Laurent responded with a middle finger and walked over to the cashier. As they exited the store, Laurent ripped the packaging open, and rolled off the top, holding out the applicator towards Damen.

“Help,” Laurent demanded, removing his glasses.

Damen made a face, but took the applicator and bent his head closer to Laurent’s. “How much?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“How the hell am _I_ supposed to know?” Damen protested, pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head to get a better look.

“Just do your best.”

Damen groaned, and brought a hand to Laurent’s chin, tilting his head up. He glided the applicator gently over Laurent’s left cheekbone, and dabbed at it with his ring finger, a bit too hard.

“Careful,” Laurent hissed.

“Shut up.” Damen frowned, spreading out the concealer over the bruise. “Stay still.”

The look of deep concentration on Damen’s face made Laurent snort. The lines of focus on Damen’s forehead, and his soft, slightly open lips had all the seriousness of a surgeon during an operation.

Damen pulled back moments later, inspecting his work from different angles. “There,” he said. “That doesn’t look bad.”

He returned the applicator to Laurent, and quickly wiped his finger off on Laurent’s jaw.

“Hey!” Laurent snapped, but Damen had already sprinted out of his reach, a mischievous, childish grin on his face.

They strolled down the terracotta pavements of downtown. Damen told Laurent about a few new bars he thought Laurent would love (“The owner of that one gives free drinks to anyone who beats him at arm wrestling. He’ll go bankrupt very soon.”) and how one of their old favourite restaurants had been shut down due to lizard infestation. Damen dragged him into a bookstore to show him the novels of their former Akielon literature professor back in university who had abandoned academia since and become a science fiction novelist. Amused, Laurent gawked at the book covers: green-skinned aliens holding machine guns, a robotic hand approaching an infant’s crib, “BEWARE THE GLARE!” printed above a red, veiny eyeball. The owner of the shop gave them a disapproving look as the two held onto their stomachs, laughing until their eyes were wet.

Then, they walked to an ice cream truck that sold chocolate-flavoured ice cream only and bought two cones. The ice cream was unexpectedly good: thick and creamy with just the right amount of bitterness to the chocolate. The cold was pleasant on Laurent’s tongue, as they sauntered around a park, past a graystone water fountain. The bright blue ocean was visible from a distance, calm and shimmering under the sunlight. People in colourful swimming gear sunbathed on the white sand beach or played volleyball.

Laurent began to talk about how a colleague had once made coffee with sparkling water and tried to convince Laurent to try the ungodly recipe. He talked about being hospitalised for pneumonia last winter because the bus was an hour late and his phone had run out of battery. He described, unable to contain his own laughter, how a turtle had tormented Sophie for hours. Damen told him about almost burning down his apartment with a candle, his plans and hesitations for branching out his company, and Kastor’s twin daughters who had turned seven a few months ago. They sat down on a wooden bench and talked about a newly released knock off detective series they had both enjoyed. Damen told him about Jokaste and how after a year and a half together, they had come to the conclusion that they didn’t make each other happy enough for the relationship to be worth it, and decided to part ways.

Laurent did not notice the westward movement of the sun, or the gradual lengthening of the shadows, until Damen’s cellphone buzzed in his pocket. Laurent glanced at his own watch, surprised to see the short hand resting on five.

“Nik and Jokaste are at a bar a few blocks away,” Damen said, looking at his phone. “We should probably start heading there.”

Laurent agreed, ignoring the slight disappointment that stirred in his stomach.

The bar was one Laurent had been to before. It was a small establishment, unembellished and rather dull-looking. The prices and the food, however, were reasonable and the drinks were strong. The best part about the bar was that it was never too busy as it didn’t attract many tourists, and the outdoor patio was almost always available. 

As they crossed the street, Laurent noticed two familiar faces, sitting at a round table. A foreign sensation of joy and fear prickled his skin. The two did look different. Nikandros had grown a well-groomed beard that suited him, and Jokaste, with a golden sheen to her ivory skin, fashioned a short haircut that accentuated the pleasant shape of her face.

“Sorry we’re late,” said Damen as they approached the table.

Jokaste glanced up at Laurent, an enigmatic smirk settling on her lips. “Pay up, Nik,” she said, elbowing Nikandros. “His hairline is intact.”

Nikandros groaned, took a paper bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “Let’s make the same bet in three years.”

Incredulous, Laurent let out a huff. “You’re betting on my hairline?” he said. “That’s a new low.”

Jokaste shrugged, rising to her feet, and walked over to him. “Laurent,” she said, and Laurent remembered that she was almost as tall as himself, “I don’t know if I want to hug you or punch you more.”

“How about neither—”

Jokaste’s arms cut him off, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close. “I think you’ll hate this way more than a punch,” she said before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Laurent’s eyes widened, heat rushing to his ears above Jokaste’s warm arms. Damen snickered in the background.

Laurent cleared his throat, and raised a hand to Jokaste’s back, patting her on the shoulder. “All right, you made your point.”

Jokaste smiled against his neck before pulling away. Laurent cleared his throat again, and nodded a greeting at Nikandros.

Nikandros lifted a brow. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Thank goodness,” Laurent replied, joining the rest at the table.

It didn’t take long for alcohol-filled glasses and small plates of food to populate the tabletop. Above them, the sky began to trade its baby blue for deep shades of orange.

“Did you get the job, yet?” Jokaste asked, over a glass of whiskey.

“The interview is on Monday,” he said, pleasantly surprised at how strong the drinks still were at this bar.

“Will you move down here if you get it?” Nikandros asked.

Laurent shrugged, taking a sip. “Probably. I don’t know yet.”

“What about Torveld? With his job, it’s going to be hard to move, no?”

Laurent tilted his head to knock back the rest of his drink. He should have brought a cigarette. “I don’t know,” he replied, nose wrinkling at the burning taste. “I need to actually get the job first.”

With his legs crossed comfortably, Damen asked, “Does it feel strange that you’re becoming a professor at your first university?”

Laurent slumped back into his chair, feeling the haze of alcohol spreading in his veins. “You all do realise I haven’t gotten an offer yet, right?”

“You’ll get it,” Damen replied, matter-of-factly.

“Well, I have news for you, Laurent,” Nikandros said, finding a thick, delicately designed piece of paper in his bag. “I’m getting married.”

Laurent straightened his back instantly, and grabbed the invitation card. “Who the fuck would marry you?” he asked, incredulously.

“Zip it, asshole,” Nikandros bit out, but there was little venom in his voice. “The wedding’s next month. And I guess you’re invited now, much to my distress.”

“I’m going to be his best man,” Damen said with an excited waggle of brows.

Laurent looked down at the invitation card. Nikandros and his fiancée’s names were beautifully calligraphed on it with burgundy ink. Laurent didn’t notice the smile that settled on his own lips.

“Congratulations,” he said in a much quieter voice, still smiling. “This is great news.”

Across the table, Nikandros made a face. “Please never sound so sincere, ever again.”

New bottles and glasses joined the collection on the table until the sun sank in the ocean. Nikandros and Jokaste fell into the trap of a drunken debate about Akielon parliamentary elections, while Damen only sat back and watched them with a lazy smile. Laurent, astonished by the scene, mouthed a “please make this stop” to Damen who laughed out loud.

“Let’s go for a swim,” Damen suggested, suddenly, slapping his hands on his thighs.

Nikandros and Jokaste’s bickering came to a halt. In fact, Laurent noted, they both looked relieved by the distraction.

“Excellent idea,” said Jokaste. “Let’s go.”

Laurent stumbled slightly as he got his feet, bumping into Damen who steadied him by the arm before letting go. Somewhat incoherent and with red-stained cheeks, they walked on the sidewalk along the shore for twenty minutes before the three Akielons stopped. It was Jokaste who moved first, threw her bag over the short brick wall of a private estate and pulled herself up.

Lauren’s brows shot up. “ _No_ , hey, I can’t get arrested for this tonight.”

From the top of the wall, Jokaste turned her head. “That’s my house.” She pointed at the beach house on the property and smirked. “Come on, I won’t call the police on you.”

Nikandros was next, whose height allowed him to pull himself up easily.

Laurent threw his hands in the air. “Why, then, aren’t we using the _door_?”

Damen jumped up next with a toothy grin. “Because this is fun.”

Laurent groaned, but as his feet landed on the sand, a familiar thrill pulsed under his skin that he knew would never be matched by the convenience of a door. He removed his shoes and socks and walked over to the others near the water. The cool, soft sand swallowed his feet with every step, tickling his toes. Under the moonlight, the dark waves were gentle, turning clear and foaming slightly when they licked the sand.

Nikandros dipped his toes into the water. “A little cold.”

“Perfect,” Jokaste said before unzipping her dress and slipping out of it.

Damen and Nikandros followed suit and undressed until the three stood stark naked on the sand. Nikandros was already walking into the water.

“Not coming?” Damen asked, turning his head towards Laurent.

Jokaste’s mouth curved up. “I’m more than ready to insult you by calling you a ‘Veretian prude.’”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “I’m not a prude,” he muttered, yanking off his shirt. “It’s just cold in Vere all-year-long.”

His trousers and undergarments soon joined his shirt on the floor. The breeze was cool against his flushed skin. This was, in fact, the first time in years that Laurent had been naked outside the house. He usually needed a jacket at the beach in Arles.

His eyes were pulled towards the outline of Damen’s body, solid and sharp against the background. The strong lines of his shoulder blades, the dipped line of his spine, his muscled buttocks and curved thighs. In his thirties, Damen looked more than ever like a bronze Hellenistic statue, every curve zealously shaped to ignite unbridled desire. Laurent looked away, placing his glasses carefully on the pile of clothes.

The water was cold, but not unbearable. The depth gradually increased until Laurent’s feet no longer touched the ground. He was a good swimmer. He loved swimming for the weightlessness of the body and hush of water. He could hear the sound of Jokaste’s laughter somewhere close to him. It was calming.

He looked up at the porcelain moon. Waxing gibbous. Large, bright, and incomplete. The most unsatisfying, and yet, most hopeful stage of the cycle. Not a perfect circle, but its definite promise. “The moon always delivers,” Damen used to say when the two would get high after their midterm exams. Laurent would scoff at him, “Not if the sky’s cloudy tomorrow.” Damen would kiss him anyway, deeply, thoroughly, and so, so sweetly. And whenever Damen’s warm hands were on his body — which was often — Laurent could only close his eyes and think: _Who gives a shit about the moon_.

The four swam for a long time, until their muscles began to hurt. Laurent walked out of the water first, feeling a sharp ache in his calves. The Akielons followed soon, loud and boisterous. After shaking the sand off of their clothes and putting them back on, Jokasate went to the house and returned with a bottle of red wine and four glasses.

“Are you trying to kill us of alcohol poisoning tonight?” said Nikandros, sounding exhausted, but accepted the glass anyway.

“You’ll be fine,” Jokaste drawled, pouring wine for everyone. “Just one more bottle to celebrate this reunion.” She, then, raised her glass. “To our one and only degenerate Veretian doctor.”

“Cheers!”

“Fucking embarrassing,” Laurent said, hiding his smile behind the glass of wine.

The bottle was drained quickly. Laurent could hardly stand straight after the last glass. Nikandros was first to leave, waving goodbye as he jumped over the wall.

“It’s late. I think we should go, too,” Damen said, holding Laurent by the arm.

Jokaste was sitting on the sand, her face a deep shade of pink. “Bye. I’m going to sleep out here.”

Damen let out a huff. “Terrible idea,” he said, extending a hand to help her up. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“What happened to your cheek?” Jokaste slurred at Laurent as the three stumbled into the house.

“Cabinet,” Laurent replied after a pause.

“Huh.”

They left Jokaste in her bedroom with a glass of water and an empty bowl, and left from the front door. Damen called a taxi, and Laurent almost fell asleep in the backseat by the time they arrived at the apartment. It was past two in the morning. Laurent leaned against Damen’s shoulder for balance as the lift took them to the twelfth floor.

As the door opened to an empty apartment, loneliness crashed through Laurent. “I miss my dog.”

Damen patted him sympathetically on his sagging shoulder. “Come, let me show you something.”

Laurent almost tripped as he slipped out of his shoes, and followed Damen to the door on the left end of the hallway.

Damen’s bedroom was slightly larger, and had much more character than the plain guestroom. His bed sheets were a deep shade of teal, and a small collection of bronze and marble statuettes were placed on a console table. An antique looking Flemish tapestry hung from the wall, above the bed posts. The room was also messier than the guestroom, with a few articles of clothing and books scattered on the floor. Multiple cups, stained with tea and wine, were abandoned on the nightstand.

Damen walked to the wall, near the open windows, and pointed to the numerous framed photographs of different sizes on the wall. Laurent walked over to him, slightly dizzy. There were old family photos with Damen’s parents and a young Kastor, many recent photos of Damen with Jokaste, Nikandros and a petite woman Laurent assumed was Nikandros’ fiancé. There were pictures of Kastor and his daughters, of vacations and birthday parties, and of Damen in a suit, accepting an award along with his coworkers.

Damen pointed to a brown frame. “Remember that?”

Of course, Laurent remembered. It was a picture of Damen and himself on the floor of Damen’s previous apartment, both rubbing a seven-year-old Sophie’s belly whose paws were limply in the air and her pink tongue hung from the side of her mouth.

“She’s still as dopey,” Laurent scoffed, warmth swirling in his chest. “I have no idea how they make these dogs sniff bombs. If it were Sophie, she would just try to play fetch with it.”

Damen chuckled, as he did often, carefree and joyful. Laurent had always liked the sound of his laughter. Everyone did. Everyone liked Damen. A decade ago, Laurent had just become one of the ‘everyone,’ and had never really stopped, no matter how many times he tried, or how many bad, laughably self-destructive decisions he made.

The dizziness was not going away, Laurent realised. He’d had far too much to drink.

Damen probably saw it in his face. “Sit down.” He pointed to the bed. “I’ll get you water.”

Laurent decided that lying down on the bed sounded like a more comfortable option. He, then, took out his phone from his pocket, ignored the emails and text messages, and clicked on his photo gallery which consisted almost entirely of Sophie’s pictures and blurry snapshots of book pages.

Damen returned with two large cups of water and sat down next to Laurent. “Up,” he said, nudging him with his knee. “Drink this first.”

Laurent obliged with a groan. He dropped his head back on the pillow afterwards, continuing to skim through his gallery.

“What are you looking at?” Damen asked as he placed the empty cups beside the others on the nightstand.

He lay down next to Laurent, placing his head on Laurent’s stretched-out arm who automatically bent his elbow to touch Damen’s hair, almost by muscle memory.

He tilted the screen towards Damen. “She got stung by a bee last summer.”

“Oh, no!” Damen exclaimed. “Let me see.”

Laurent handed the phone to him who began to swipe through the gallery with a smile. “Aren’t German Shepherds supposed to be... elegant and intimidating?”

Laurent snorted. “Her wet tongue is plenty intimidating when she tries to lick your eyeballs.”

Damen let out a short laugh, adjusting his head on Laurent’s arm. His profile was absurdly beautiful, Laurent noted for the thousandth time. The strong jawline, the curved lips, the straight nose, and long, black eyelashes. The swim earlier had defined the waves of his dark hair. The graceful lines of age that were slowly forming around the corner of his eyes and his forehead only made him more endearing. He was beautiful. So beautiful that it hurt to look at him so closely.

Laurent’s body moved on its own. He gently pulled his arm free from under Damen’s head, and rose, slung a leg over Damen’s hips, straddling him. Damen looked up, and lowered the phone to his chest. His dark brows were neutral. Laurent placed his hands on the mattress, on two sides of his head, the tips of his yellow hair falling on Damen’s skin. He saw Damen’s gaze drop, for a moment, to his mouth. That was enough.

Laurent kissed him. He let his mouth melt against Damen’s soft, warm lips, and dragged the tip of his tongue over them. A question to which Damen responded by tilting his head and deepening the kiss, letting Laurent take his lower lip between his teeth and suck gently. He kissed back, passionate and inviting, like he always kissed. His tongue brushed against Laurent’s, tasting strongly of wine, and Laurent shivered at how much he wanted Damen. Laurent _wanted_ him.

But a palm pressed against his chest, soft yet decided, and pushed him back gently. Laurent opened his lids, his chest heaving, and saw Damen’s deep brown eyes below him. Gods, he was beautiful.

“Laurent, every time we do this, you go away,” he said quietly, pushing Laurent further away to see his face. “Last time, you left and barely answered my calls for _three years_.” He lowered his hands, letting them rest on Laurent’s thighs. “And, with Torveld— You’ve been together for, what, six years? You _know_ this is wrong.”

Laurent lifted a hand to push his own hair out of his face, and shook his head. “We’re not exactly together anymore.”

Damen’s brows furrowed in surprise. “You broke up?!”

“Not officially, yet,” Laurent replied, “but that’s on the top of my to-do list when I get back.”

Damen’s surprise transformed into concern. “What—” he searched Laurent’s eyes, “What happened?”

Laurent pressed his lips together and looked at the lines of worry on Damen’s face. Laurent wanted to tell him. He almost did. About months of indifference that had turned into months of resentment. About the final straw which had broken with a smack so loud he could still hear it in his left ear. Laurent wanted to tell him.

“Nothing,” he said, swallowing. “It's just not working out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Damen said, lowering his gaze.

There was a look of genuine empathy on his face which almost made Laurent laugh. Damen was clueless.

“But, still,” Damen continued, “if that’s what you really want, you need to end it with him first. That’s the correct order.”

Laurent let out a huff of laughter. “Okay,” he said, “will you fuck me if I send him a message right now?”

Damen smiled at that, and Laurent knew him too well to not see the melancholy behind it. Damen brought a hand to Laurent’s cheek.

“No,” he replied, gently, “we’ve both had too much to drink.”

With an exasperated sigh, Laurent rolled his eyes and pulled away. He dropped down on the bed next to Damen, shoulders touching, as they both stared at the ceiling in silence. The thin curtains fluttered with the breeze, gingerly breaking the stillness of the room.

“I hate it in Arles,” Laurent said in Veretian.

“Leave, then.”

“I’m trying.”

 _It’s not that easy._ Laurent rolled to his side, curling against Damen’s warm body. He pressed his forehead to Damen’s shoulder and breathed in his scent. Sea salt, detergent, and alcohol. His heart was heavy as stone in his chest. _It’s not that easy._ Laurent closed his lids before the tears could find their way out.


	3. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. New tag: Panic Attacks.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

_“I’m so sorry about Auguste.”_

_Ankle-deep in snow, Laurent could not feel his toes. His fingers were red around the cellphone, nearly frostbitten next to his ear. The headache was nauseating._

_“Can you— Can you come up here for a while?” he asked quietly, his voice hoarse from the blistering cold, and an entire day of crying._

_On the other end of the line, there was a pause, a hesitation. “Laurent, I’m—” A sigh, a difficult decision. “You know my dad is dying. Kastor doesn’t show up. I’m at the hospital every day, and with school and work... I don’t think I can.”_

_Tears that hadn’t quite dried since the night before began to stream down Laurent’s red, icy cheeks. “Damen, please, just— just for a few days. I know we haven’t talked in a while and— and this is a lot to ask, but I don’t—” He pressed the heel of his free palm to his eye until it hurt. His voice broke. “I don’t know what to_ do _.”_

_Another pause. “Laurent,” came a sad voice, almost cooing, quiet and regretful, “I can’t.”_

_Laurent’s headache was blinding. The pounding in his ears was so loud that he thought his eardrums were about to burst. He lowered his head, watched drops of silent tears burn small holes into the snow._

_“Okay,” he whispered._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m so sorry, Auguste._

Laurent woke with a gasp, eyes wide, heart hammering violently in his chest. His hair was stuck to his sweat-drenched neck. His throat felt painfully dry.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, and inhaled deeply as he rubbed his throbbing temples.

He was alone in bed, tangled in sheets of deep turquoise. He found his cellphone and glasses on the nightstand. It was almost seven in the morning. He left Damen’s bedroom quietly for a glass of water. Damen was in the living room, fast asleep on the couch with a pillow uncomfortably squashed under his head.

Laurent took a long shower in the guestroom, carefully washing the remaining sand from between his toes and under his nails. He downed two ibuprofens, then, and sat on the bed for a while, absently staring at the painting on the wall until his headache dulled. When he returned to the living room with his laptop and folder of papers, he found Damen awake, sitting on the couch with his head between his hands. His hair and clothes were in comical disarray.

“Hangover?” Laurent asked, walking to the kitchen.

Damen raised his head and gave him a crooked smile. “I guess my body can’t take alcohol as well as it used to.”

Laurent huffed out and handed him a glass of water, sitting down on the couch. With hollowed under eyes and chapped lips, Damen looked unusually exhausted.

“You should go back to bed,” Laurent said. “I need to look over my papers for tomorrow. You don’t need to keep me company.”

Damen drank the glass of water in large gulps and shook his head. “I _want_ to keep you company.”

Laurent watched him for a moment in silence. Then, he shrugged and asked for the WiFi password.

The morning passed quietly. Damen showered and made the best coffee Laurent had ever had. After breakfast, Laurent moved to the balcony with his laptop, papers, and cigarettes and worked into the afternoon. Damen joined him at some point with two cups of tea, and a book of epic poetry.

It was around three o’clock when Damen received a phone call and left the balcony to answer it. He returned minutes later, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey, is it okay if my nieces come over for a few hours? Kastor’s babysitter is sick, and he’s bringing the kids over.”

Laurent nodded. “I don’t mind.”

“Thanks. I promise we’ll be quiet.”

“It’s your home, idiot.”

Damen smiled, and was about to turn away but hesitated. “Would you mind…” he said, pointing to Laurent’s cigarette apologetically.

Laurent blinked, confused for a moment before he understood. “Oh,” he said, “sure.”

He snuffed out the cigarette into the saucer and threw it away in the small, steel dustbin in the corner of the balcony.

“Sorry, I don’t care, but they’re young and—”

“I understand,” Laurent said, arching a brow. “You don’t need to explain.”

Damen flashed him another smile and nodded. “Okay, I’m going downstairs to get them.”

Laurent rose from the chair after Damen left, and stretched his back. The weather was slightly cooler than the day before, but the sky was spotless. He went to the kitchen for another cup of tea.

A high, energetic voice boomed as the front door opened, “Uncle Damen! Uncle Damen! Look, I have a loose tooth!”

“Where?” came Damen’s equally energetic, but vastly deeper voice. “Woah! Cool!”

Within seconds, small feet tottered into the kitchen, nearly startling Laurent. The seven-year-old twins were identical, carrying the same prominent, dark features as the rest of Damen’s family. Their large brown eyes fixed on Laurent so intensely that Laurent almost took a step back.

Damen soon joined them, slightly out of breath. “This is my friend Laurent who’s staying with me for a few days,” Damen said, nodding towards Laurent.

“Laurent, this is my niece Ella,” he put his now giant-looking hand on the small head of the girl to his right. She was in a floral yellow dress and wore her black hair in pigtails. Her boisterous smile nearly covered half of her face.

“And this is my niece Ida,” Damen put his left hand on the head of the other twin with shoulder-length hair and jean overalls. Unlike her sister, Ida’s expression was cold and unreadable, almost judgemental.

Laurend nodded at the two, curtly. “Hi.” He, then, turned his eyes to Damen. “Where’s the sugar? I can’t seem to find it.”

Ella spoke before Damen could, “You have an accent! Are you a foreigner?”

“Ella, that’s not polite,” Damen warned in a gentle tone.

“Is it not?” she asked, and blinked at Laurent sadly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Laurent replied, nodding. “Yes, I’m from Vere.”

“Cool!” Ella exclaimed happily before reaching for Damen’s hand. “Uncle Damen, can I show you my drawing of a frog I found? It was the biggest frog I’d ever seen, ever!”

Damen laughed, but Ella was already pulling him away, continuing her detailed descriptions of the monstrous frog.

“Sugar’s in the cabinet to your left,” said Ida, monotonously, climbing onto a dining chair.

Laurent looked at her for a moment before opening the cabinet door and finding the sugar. Huh. Damen must have spent a great deal of time babysitting.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Are you from Arles?” Ida asked in accented Veretian.

Surprised, Laurent raised his brows and replied in Veretian, “Yes, I am.”

“I go to Arles two years ago with mum,” she continued the conversation in Veretian. “Pretty snow and long trees.”

Laurent smiled, stirring the sugar in his tea. “Your Veretian is good. Better than your uncle’s.”

“I heard that!” came Damen’s wounded voice from the living room.

“I study. I want be politician,” Ida explained, searching for the right words. “Veritian is useful for… despotic relations.”

Laurent broke into a chuckle, wondering where she had learned the term. “You mean _‘diplomatic’_ relations, I hope,” he said.

“Right, diplomatic relations,” she repeated, and then in Akielon, “I’m going to be the prime minister.”

“And I’m going to be a pirate!” Ella announced proudly from the living room.

Laurent leaned against the kitchen counter and smirked at Damen. “Your nieces are ambitious.”

“Girls, I promised Laurent that we’ll be quiet. He needs to work.”

Damen and the twins kept their promise, for the most part. Laurent continued his preparations on the balcony without any distractions, except for the occasional hyper-excited cries of Ella. When he was finished, he gathered his papers and closed his laptop, bringing them back inside. He found the three busy in the kitchen: Ella’s hands were covered to elbows with flour while Damen was setting the oven temperature.

“Laurent!” Ella beamed. “We’re baking you a birthday cake!”

Ida hit her on the shoulder, frowning. “That was the surprise, stupid.”

“Birthday cake?” Laurent lifted his brows, blinking at Damen. “It’s not my birthday.”

Damen turned his head towards him. “It’s your birthday next week, but you won’t be here.”

Ella added, “So, we’re celebrating today!”

Laurent was almost surprised to be reminded that his birthday was next week. It had been years since he had celebrated his birthday.

“How old are you going to be?” asked Ida, casually.

“Thirty, I guess,” Laurent replied.

Was he really turning thirty in a week? When had that happened?

“So old,” Ella sang, deepening his voice. Damen laughed.

Laurent put his laptop and folder away and joined the other three in the kitchen. He helped Damen with the pizza, and held Ella up, so she could wash her hands in the sink. They ate dinner together an hour later. The pizza was delicious — Laurent was not surprised — and the twins seemed to think it was the best food they had ever tasted.

When the cake was brought out, Laurent helped Ida spell his name in Veretian on top of it with chocolate. Ella placed a single candle in the middle and Damen helped her with lighting it. To Laurent’s utter embarrassment, the Akielons sang an out of tune birthday song that insisted he was going to live to be a hundred years old.

“Make a wish! Make a wish!” Ella chanted, barely containing her excitement.

 _A wish?_ Laurent’s brows furrowed. “I don’t think I have any wishes,” he said, contemplatively.

“You must have _some_ wishes,” Ida insisted.

 _What do I wish for?_ Laurent closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. _I just... don’t want to be unhappy._

He opened his eyes and blew on the candle. Ella clapped happily, and Damen cut a piece for everyone. The layers of the cake appeared messy and uneven, but the taste was surprisingly good. Laurent had a second piece before he helped Damen clean the dishes.

“Happy birthday, Laurent,” Damen said, standing next to him at the sink. “I hope this year brings you happiness.”

Laurent looked up for long enough to see his soft smile, and only hummed in response.

“I’m stuffed,” Ella drawled, slumping on the couch as everyone returned to the living room. An idea, however, seemed to spike her energy again. “Laurent, can I braid your hair?”

“Ella, don’t bother him,” Damen said from the floor, working on a puzzle with Ida.

Ella, however, inched closer to Laurent. “Please?”

Laurent looked down at her large, sparkling eyes and sighed, “Sure.”

To his surprise, Ella was gentle with his hair, carefully sectioning and brushing through them with her fingers. If she accidentally pulled on a knot, she would apologetically pat him on the head before continuing. It was all strangely relaxing, despite the fact that Laurent knew the result would not be flattering.

After Ella decided that her masterpiece was complete, he asked Laurent to turn around.

“Wow,” she said with a look of awe, proud of her work, “you’re so pretty.” She turned and looked at her uncle for a second opinion.

Damen lifted his eyes and chuckled. “Yes,” he nodded, locking eyes with Laurent, “he is beautiful.”

Laurent’s cheeks grew warm. “Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, and raised a hand to touch the loose braids on his head.

Kastor called soon after, asking Damen to take the twins downstairs.

Ella threw her arms around Laurent’s waist, catching him off guard in a tight hug before running to the door. Ida waved at him coolly, and said goodbye in Veritian. He waved back, a smile lingering on the corner of his mouth after the door closed. He sat down on the couch and turned on the television, hoping to watch a movie with Damen before going to bed.

***

Laurent woke before his alarm the next morning. He cut himself while shaving, poked himself in the eye when putting on his contact lenses, and burnt his tongue with coffee.

“Laurent, calm down,” Damen said, half-concerned and half-entertained. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Laurent pressed the napkin to his painful mouth and cursed under his breath. “What time is it?”

“A quarter past seven,” said Damen, placing a sunny-side-up egg on Laurent’s plate. “Your interview is at nine and it’s a twenty minute drive to the university. You _won’t_ be late.”

Laurent poked at the egg with his fork, feeling too nauseous, even for a cigarette. “Arles and Ios are _definitely_ in the same time zone, yes?”

Damen let out an incredulous huff. “ _Yes,_ ” he cried, shaking his head with frustration, “unless Earth’s longitudes have somehow shifted since last night.”

“I can’t eat,” Laurent said, pushing the plate away. “I’m going to get ready.”

Damen was quick to grab his wrist. “Laurent, please sit down,” he pleaded. “Your interview is four hours long, and you’re going to regret not having eaten anything when your blood sugar drops.” He raised his brows, then, and smiled fondly at him. “We won’t be late. I promise.”

Laurent dropped back in the chair with a deep frown on his face, and began to eat his breakfast without saying anything else.

Afterwards, Laurent took his dry-cleaned gray suit out of his garment cover bag and dressed. He put on his bowtie in front of the mirror and tied his hair loosely in a low ponytail.

“Do I look okay?” he asked as he came to the living room, holding his polished dress shoes and backpack in his hands.

Damen turned around. His eyes scrolled down Laurent’s height. “Ditch the bowtie.”

Laurent was scandalised. “What do you mean ‘ditch the bowtie?!’” he snapped, already removing the bowtie. “I don’t have anything else!”

“Give me a second.”

Damen disappeared in his bedroom and returned with a skinny navy blue necktie. He walked over to Laurent, lifted the collar of his shirt and slung the tie around his neck. Laurent stood still and let Damen knot the necktie for him. When finished, Damen stepped back and gave him another thorough look.

“If you were going to a contest for ‘best-looking mathematician,’ you’d win in a heartbeat,” Damen said, putting on his shoes.

Laurent snorted a laugh. “You realise winning that contest won’t be all that hard, don’t you?”

Damen chuckled, opening the door. “Keep the tie,” he said. “It looks good on you.”

The car ride was quiet. Laurent was not in the mood to chat, and so Damen did not push him. Less than five minutes into the ride, however, Laurent began to shake his left leg incessantly as he watched the shoreline run parallel to them. Had he forgotten any documents? What if he got sick during the interview?

He almost jumped at Damen’s palm reaching over and sitting on his knee, gently holding it still. The touch reminded Laurent to breathe.

“It will be okay,” Damen said beside him, calmly. “Trust me.”

Laurent did not shake his leg for the remainder of the drive. Damen stopped the car in front of the math department and Laurent noted that they were twenty minutes early. He checked his folder one more time and turned off his cellphone.

“I’ll pick you up at one o’clock, then,” Damen said. “Call me if anything changes.”

Laurent nodded, swallowing another gulp of water. He grabbed onto his backpack and opened the door.

“Laurent,” Damen called, “you’re quite literally the smartest person I know,” he said, cocking a brow at him. “You couldn’t ruin this interview even if you tried.”

The sentiment made Laurent smile. He stepped out of the car and shut the door, bending towards the open window.

“Is that a challenge?” he asked in a low voice.

Damen rolled his eyes and made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Go away, I’m sick of you,” he said through a grin.

Laurent gave a wave and walked towards the familiar entrance of the building. Perhaps Damen was right. Laurent was qualified, he spoke the language, he knew most of the faculty. Perhaps it was going to be all right, after all.

He took a deep breath in, and opened the door.

***

The interview went far more smoothly than Laurent had anticipated. Three of the interviewers were Laurent’s former professors, all of whom remembered him as one of the brightest students. The panel was impressed by his published papers which they discussed in depth, along with the research he was currently undertaking. They talked about his extensive experience as a teaching assistant which ignited a conversation about underpaid and overworked graduate students. They discussed his book, and one of the panelists expressed her interest in implementing the textbook in her own class’ syllabus. The panel spent the final hour giving an overview of the benefit package, and answered Laurent’s questions. After the interview, Laurent shook hands with the panelists and thanked them for their time.

The head of the department, who used to be Laurent’s academic advisor, slapped him on the shoulder genially and said, “I’m still bitter that you didn’t stay with us for your PhD.”

Laurent laughed. “At least I didn’t go to the private sector, Professor.”

As he stepped out of the building, he felt as though he had shrugged off the weight of a mountain. The university yard was a bright shade of green, with lines of yellow daffodils and red tulips beautifully planted along the pavements.

It was twenty past one in the afternoon, and the bright sunlight reflected blindingly from the white surface of Damen’s car. Laurent waved, striding down the sidewalk to the car. He climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door with a sharp sigh.

“How did it go?” Damen asked, excitedly.

Laurent nodded, smiling. “Pretty good, I think,” he said, zipping his backpack open. “Can we go eat something? I’m starving.”

Damen chuckled. “Sure. What do you want to eat?”

Laurent shook his head, turning on his cellphone. “Anything that can absorb all the alcohol I’m about to drink before my flight tomorrow morning.”

Damen snorted. “It’s Monday. Too early in the week for drinking.”

Laurent grinned. “I don’t have a job yet. Weekdays mean nothing to me,” he said, looking down at the loading screen of his phone.

A green message popped up on the top of the screen. Laurent didn’t hear Damen’s response.

_[9:13] Message from Torveld: “Sophie’s sick.”_

Laurent’s heart sank, his fingers grew numb around the phone. A freezing cold spread over his skin. _No. No. No._

“Laurent?”

_Sophie’s sick._

“Laurent, are you okay?”

A hand touched his shoulder. Laurent dropped the phone in his lap. His chest ached with a sharp intake of breath. He picked up the phone again, other hand scrambling for the door handle.

_Sophie’s sick._

“Laurent, what’s wrong?!”

He stumbled out of the car, clicked on Torveld’s name and pressed the phone to his ear, almost violently. He heard Damen get out of the car on the other side. The phone rang one, twice—

Torveld’s deep voice came from the other end of the line. _“Laurent—”_

“What’s wrong with Sophie?” Laurent's voice sounded like a trembling growl.

_“Laurent, calm down and listen—”_

“Just answer my fucking question!” Laurent all but yelled, his fisted hand shaking at his side.

_“Acute renal failure. She’s at the hospital now. I think you should come back tonight. I can book you a flight for six in the afternoon if that—”_

“I can get to the airport by four,” Laurent cut him off, breathing heavily.

_“Okay, I’ll send you the confirmation number.”_

Laurent hung up immediately. His knuckles were white around the edges of the phone. The tightness in his chest was making him dizzy.

He threw his hand back, trying to grip onto the car door for some purchase. Closed his burning eyes to stop his head from spinning. He was breathing too fast, couldn’t breath at all, couldn’t feel his legs. He heard Damen rush to his side. He felt Damen’s hands holding him firmly by the arms. He couldn’t breathe.

“Laurent, you’re hyperventilating— Try breathing through your nose— Slowly. Good, okay—”

Laurent tried to focus on his voice. Breathed through his nose, tried to hold the air in for a second before exhaling. His eyes burned painfully under his lids.

“That’s good. It’s okay, Laurent— Keep breathing. It’s okay.”

Damen’s hands rubbed slowly along his arms. Laurent tried to concentrate on the touch, tried to keep breathing, slowly.

The pounding in his chest gradually began to calm. He curled his fingers and opened his fists a few times until he could feel his hands again. Damen’s face was in front of him when he opened his eyes. He looked pale, dark eyes seconds away from trembling with panic.

“A-are you feeling better?”

Laurent nodded, inhaling through his nose.

Damen squeezed his arm with a weak smile. “Okay, good. Do you— Do you need to go to the airport?”

Laurent swallowed as he regained control over more of his body. “My passport is at your apartment,” he managed to say.

Damen nodded. “Okay, we’ll go back first, then.”

As they both settled back into the car, Laurent wiped the wetness around his eyes with the back of his hand. Damen drove into the main street, and didn’t ask anything until Laurent spoke.

“Sophie’s at the hospital,” Laurent said in a weak voice. “Kidney failure.”

Damen gasped audibly, his brows pulling together. “That’s terrible. I hope she will be okay.”

“Yeah, I hope so, too,” Laurent muttered, rubbing his eyes roughly. “I hope so, too.”

_I don’t know what I’ll do if she won’t._

Back in Damen’s apartment, Laurent moved automatically in a hectic hurry. He packed his passport, wallet, and laptop. Didn’t bother to change, only took off his jacket and shoved it unceremoniously into his backpack. He didn’t remember much of the drive to the airport, except for taking painkillers for his headache. Damen helped to print the boarding pass for him while Laurent looked for the gate number.

“Don’t worry if you forgot anything. I can post them to you,” Damen said as Laurent took out his ID.

Laurent nodded, stopped abruptly before entering the gate and turned to face Damen. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely there, “for everything.”

Damen tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “Just keep me updated, okay?”

Laurent nodded a goodbye before turning away, and disappeared at the security checkpoint. 


	4. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Please mind the tags before reading this chapter.  
> Also, I promise you a happy ending.

The seat Torveld had booked for Laurent was business class. Of course it was — Torveld never flew economy, not even if his life depended on it. The seat was comfortable, and gave Laurent privacy and plenty of leg room. Laurent had never hated a flight as much.

His headache only worsened in the span of the next six hours. As the sky grew dark, even the reading lights of the cabin seemed blinding. All Laurent could do was lean his head back and shut his eyes, trying his best not to vomit. By the time the airplane landed, Laurent’s nails had cut thin, red crescents into his palms.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he reached the airport lobby. He spotted Torveld easily. It was never too difficult to spot a man in a perfectly tailored, three-piece pinstripe suit at the airport past midnight. As always, his silver-fox hair was slicked back and his beard was trimmed short. His perfectly-put together appearance was as impenetrable as ever. There was a time when Laurent used to find it charming. That was a long time ago.

As Laurent approached him, Torveld smiled. “How was your fli—”

“I’m going to the hospital,” Laurent said tersely, brushing past him without making eye contact.

Torveld grabbed his elbow. “Laurent—”

“You don’t need to come.” Laurent pulled his arm free. An overwhelming sense of foreboding twisted in his stomach. Something horrible was about to happen. He couldn’t let it. He had to leave. He had to leave now.

“ _Laurent._ ” Torveld grabbed him again. Laurent shut his eyes, heard the words in his head before Torveld said them: “She’s not there anymore.”

 _No._ Laurent shook his head. A whisper left him, “No.”

He turned around slowly, lifted his eyes to Torveld’s. This had to be a joke. A horrible, cruel one, but a joke nonetheless. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Torveld’s dark eyes revealed nothing.

“Where is she, then?”

“Darling…” Torveld muttered. For some reason, his brows furrowed. There was a look of pity on his face that Laurent despised. He lifted a hand and brushed Laurent’s cheek gently. “I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.”

 _No._ No, this had to be a joke. _Please._ Laurent wouldn’t mind getting on his knees and begging Torveld to stop this vicious farce.

“She died this morning,” Torveld said.

Laurent’s breath came out a humourless, dry laugh. He felt a hot drop of tear slip out of his eye. He scatted away Torveld’s hand and quickly wiped his eyes, keeping the pressure of his fingers on his lids for a few moments, his teeth ground against each other. He felt a strange cold expand from his stomach and take over his chest until his heart seemed to have stopped beating. He blinked the dampness away and unlocked his jaw with a long exhale.

Torveld took it as an opening and explained, “She got sick on Friday. The vets did all they could over the weekend, but you know how renal failure is with dogs. They hardly ever survive.”

“Since Friday,” Laurent whispered with another breath of laughter, another tear burning down his cheek.

Laurent should have known. He shouldn’t have ignored Sophie's lack of appetite that morning. Later, she had whined sadly when Laurent put on his shoes, as though asking him to stay. She always knew when Laurent was going away for longer than a day. Laurent had scratched her neck and told her to be a good girl while he was gone. What an unnecessary request. Sophie was always good.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he said in a hushed voice. He was too tired to be angry. He was too tired. “You should’ve told me.”

Torveld’s response was cold as ice. “You should’ve answered your phone.”

Laurent was too tired to give him a piece of his mind. What did it matter now, anyway? What did it matter if Torveld’s words were unkind, unfair, and insensitive? What did it matter if Torveld, for months now, had made a game of humiliating him at every chance?

_I deserve it this time, don’t I? I left Sophie._

Laurent rubbed the quiet tears away as they came, until the skin around his eyes was irritated. He didn’t want to cry. Not in public, not in front of Torveld, not now that Sophie was gone and no amount of tears would bring her back.

Torveld’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “They sent her to the cremation center this morning. We’ll go and pick her up tomorrow,” he said, shaking his head as Laurent, without making a sound, wiped more tears away. “Come, darling, let me take you home.”

Laurent didn’t respond. He let Torveld’s arm stay around his shoulders and lead him out of the airport. The night was cold, as spring nights were in Arles. It had begun to rain, harsh droplets pounding on the windows of the car as they exited the garage.

Laurent did not say a word on their drive home. ( _Home_ , another cruel joke in Laurent’s life.) He didn’t respond to any of Torveld’s inquiries about his trip and interview. Torveld caught on after a few unanswered questions and did not ask anything afterwards. In the luxurious passenger seat of Torveld’s car, Laurent only leaned his forehead against the cold window and watched the rain, feeling nothing but a dark hollowness filled by a battering headache.

The feeling did not last when he stepped into the empty house.

No clumsy, quick paws tapped on the wooden floor towards him. Sophie did not greet him with an excited bark, jumping around his legs, licking his hands as her tail wagged happily. She did not bring her favourite toy for Luarent to throw. Didn’t lie on her back at his sight, demanding immediate belly rubs before Laurent had a chance to take off his shoes.

Laurent’s eyes dropped to her empty water bowl by the kitchen. That was when he broke down, shattered from the inside so sharply that the pain in his head paled before it.

He fell onto his knees and sobbed into his palms, loudly and unreservedly. Sophie was gone, and he hadn’t been there to say goodbye. She must have been so lonely at the hospital, must have felt abandoned, must have felt betrayed. And it was all Laurent’s fault. He had left his Sophie to die alone in a hospital. _His_ Sophie. Sophie who had been his best friend for an entire decade. Sophie who had licked his tears dry every time she’d seen him cry. Sophie who had forced him out of bed every time he had thought he couldn’t go on anymore.

All Laurent had given her in return was a hurried goodbye.

“Laurent, darling,” Torveld’s hands were around him, “you’re going to make yourself sick.” He patted Laurent’s back, holding Laurent’s head to his chest. “These things happen all the time. She was an old dog, after all.”

Laurent did not quite hear Torveld’s words over his own sobs.

“All right, that’s enough,” Torveld said with a sigh. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Laurent’s legs felt boneless when Torveld pulled him up. He slung Laurent’s arm around his own neck, gripped onto Laurent’s waist, and almost dragged him to the bedroom. Laurent felt so faint that when his back touched the mattress, he was relieved. He no longer had the energy to cry. Sobs slowly turned into pained hiccups. His lids were on fire. Air scratched his throat. He felt as though if he didn’t fall asleep right away, his headache would kill him.

He tried to lift his weight on his elbows, his sight growing dim around the edges.

“Lie back down, Laurent,” Torveld said, sitting beside him on the bed.

“My sleeping pills,” Laurent managed to say. Speaking made him nauseous. “In my backpack.”

Torveld sighed again, rising to get Laurent’s backpack. He rummaged through the pockets until he found the four different bottles of medicine, and handed Laurent the orange, prescription bottle. Laurent tapped out two white capsules and swallowed them without water. The capsules scraped their way down his throat, the horrible sensation almost choking him. His head thumped back onto the pillow, the ceiling of high plasterwork spinning above him.

He rolled to his side with a quiet groan, drawing his knees up close to his chest. He could feel the wetness of his face sticking to the sheets. Every muscle in his body ached. He just wanted this to be over. He just wanted the headache to stop. Just wanted to return to a time when Auguste was alive. Auguste would know how to stop the pain. He always knew what to do.

The mattress shifted under Torveld’s weight as he sat on the edge of it, behind Laurent.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

“No,” Laurent replied, his voice so hoarse it was unrecognisable.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No.”

“I’ll sleep in the guestroom, then,” Torveld said, and leaned over Laurent’s body, brushing Laurent’s hair away from his face. “Good night.”

He pressed a kiss to Laurent’s neck, which made a muscle twitch in Laurent’s stomach, and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Laurent curled up tighter into himself, a new rush of wet heat surging behind his lids. The sharp edge of his belt dug uncomfortably into his hip underneath him, but he didn't have the strength to move and take it off. His hands felt numb against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he muttered into the damp sheets. “I’ve never been good at taking care of those I love.”

He fell asleep before his eyes were dry.

***

Laurent woke the next day in a coughing fit. His throat was so dry that it felt as though he was suffocating. His clumped lashes stuck together so that opening his lids made him hiss in pain. He stumbled out of bed, his head spinning, almost lost balance and ran into the doorframe with his shoulder as he left the room.

The sleeping pills had left a hazy trace in his head. A wide, panelled stripe of sunlight warmed the kitchen floor. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Torveld wouldn’t return from work until six. He drank a large glass of water with some difficulty, his stomach almost rejecting the fluid. His headache was mostly gone, but the skin on his scalp and face was sensitised with the memory of pain.

He was still wearing the clothes from his interview the day before, albeit now wrinkled and disarranged. Damen’s blue tie hung loosely around his neck. Yesterday felt like ages ago.

Laurent cried in the shower, quietly, despite knowing that the house was empty. When he turned off the water and dried himself, he hardly recognised his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were swollen and red, his nose was bright pink, and his skin looked so pale that the yellowing bruise on his cheek stood out even more than before.

He dressed and went to the backyard with a pack of cigarettes. Apart from the couch, this was Sophie’s favourite spot in the house. She would drag Laurent here every afternoon to play fetch. When Laurent wasn’t home, she would take a nap on Laurent’s cushioned chair on the patio. Since her hearing had been deteriorating in the past two years, she sometimes didn’t hear the front door if she was in the backyard. Laurent would always call out for her, “Sophie, I’m home!” and she would always come to him, without fail.

Laurent chain-smoked on the patio until he heard the front door. He didn’t turn around, only gave a long puff to the cigarette before taking it from his lips and snuffing it out in the ashtray. The door to the backyard opened behind him.

“Darling?”

Laurent hated the pet name, hated how little it meant to both of them.

“I see you’re feeling better,” Torveld said, walking up to him and placing a hand on Laurent’s shoulder.

Laurent saw the moment Torveld caught a glimpse of the bruise on his cheek. Something unreadable passed over Torveld’s face. Laurent shrugged his hand off.

“Let’s go pick up Sophie,” Laurent said, walking back into the house.

The cremation center was distastefully colourful. There seemed to be menus of keepsake urns in every corner. Charts of weight to cubic centimeter conversion, and strange posters of cats and rainbows hung from the walls.

The receptionist expressed half-hearted condolences for their loss and asked them to wait. Laurent’s fingers twitched for a cigarette. Their names were called a few minutes later. A lidded clay vase, about thirty centimeters in height, was brought out. Laurent’s eyes widened at the familiar, delicate geometric art on its surface: carved circles and painted, thin-legged horses. Laurent had developed somewhat of an obsession with Akielon pottery back in university. The vase was Auguste’s graduation gift to him, bought from an antique shop in Ios.

“Is that…?” Laurent asked, giving Torveld a questioning look.

“Yes,” Torveld replied, signing the release form, “I thought you would like that.”

Laurent swallowed, picking up the vase. He bit his lip, sniffling, and nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered, “thank you.”

He held the vase to his chest throughout the drive back home, and pressed down on the lump in his throat, no matter how much it burned. The last time Sophie had fully fitted in his arms was ten years ago, when she was just a few months old. After that, she had only knocked the breath out of Laurent whenever she threw all her thirty kilograms carelessly on top of his body on the couch.

When they returned, Laurent set the vase on the table carefully, and rubbed at his eyes with a rough hand. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass, and went to the patio without a word. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to feel anything. He was too tired for any of that, too tired to even be inside his own skin.

He sat down at the patio table, lit a cigarette and poured himself a glass of whiskey, knocking it down quickly in a few sips. The sky was dark and the dim light of the moon was barely visible under the dense clouds. Laurent poured himself another glass. The burn was almost too painful in his throat, but the effect was quick. Within minutes, Laurent could feel his muscles relax despite the heartburn, his vision blurring slightly. He heard the door open behind him.

“Get back inside. You’re going to catch a cold,” Torveld said, walking to the table.

“I don’t care,” Laurent said through his teeth, downing another shot of whiskey.

Torveld sighed behind him, placing his hands on Laurent’s shoulders and leaning over. Laurent rolled his eyes, taking a last puff of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

Torveld’s palm ran down Laurent’s chest. “Can I persuade you otherwise?” he said against Laurent’s ear, his breath hot on Laurent’s skin.

Laurent shifted in the chair. “Leave me alone,” he drawled. “I’m tired.”

Torveld’s other hand gently wrapped around his throat as he pressed a kiss to Laurent’s jaw. “I can make you feel better.”

Laurent was drunk enough to let out a dry laugh at that. He squirmed out of Torveld’s arms and sprung up from the chair. His head spinned at the sudden movement. Torveld held him by the arm before he could lose balance. Torveld, then, pressed against him, capturing Laurent between his body and the table. He raised his hands to hold Laurent’s face, rubbed his thumb on Laurent’s left cheek, below the ugly bruise.

“I’m sorry about what happened last week,” Torveld said, kissing him on the left cheek. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Let go,” Laurent said, feeling dizzy from the alcohol.

Torveld left another kiss on his cheek. “You know I would never hurt you.”

 _But you did._ Laurent could still feel the impact of Torveld’s heavy hand, how loud it had been, how it had snapped Laurent’s head to the side. He tried to pull away, but Torveld only pressed closer, circling his right hand around Laurent’s waist.

“Let’s talk later—”

“This won’t happen again.” Torveld pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Let me make it up to you, darling.”

 _No._ Laurent didn’t want to _make up_. This was about more than last week.

Torveld pressed his lips to Laurent’s, kissed him deeply. Laurent’s brows drew close to each other. He squirmed, tried to pull himself free, but Torveld didn’t budge. He tilted Laurent’s head for better access and sealed his mouth on Laurent’s. Laurent felt sick. He felt dizzy, exhausted, _sick_. His forehead was so tense that it almost hurt. His mind suddenly began to wander. There had been a time when he used to enjoy kissing Torveld. There had been a time when he used to think he loved Torveld. He couldn’t remember when it was.

“I love you, Laurent,” said Torveld between the incessant kisses, as though reading his mind.

Laurent almost let out a desperate whimper at that. He was exhausted. He was so, _so_ exhausted. He gave a strong push to the older man’s chest, “Let go, Torveld,” he warned breathlessly. “I’m tired.”

“Let me do the work, then.”

Laurent yelped as Torveld placed a hand below his knees and lifted him with little effort.

“For fuck’s sake!” Laurent swore.

His head was spinning, and he grabbed onto Torveld’s shoulders for the fear of falling. He hated being manhandled like this. He had _explicitly_ told Torveld before that he hated this.

As Laurent’s back hit the mattress, Torveld’s mouth returned to his. “I love you.” His fingers gently traced the outline of the bruise on his cheek. “I’m sorry this ever happened, darling.” Torveld’s hands dropped to Laurent’s trousers, unbuttoning it.

“Stop,” Laurent said, irritation now burning through in his tone. “I said I’m tired.”

He tried to sit up, but Torveld only shifted, settled between his legs, and pinned him down by his wrists. All movements came to a momentary stop, and Laurent looked at the face that hovered above him, so close to his own that the tips of the man’s salt and pepper hair were brushing against his forehead.

“Let me make you forget all the bad memories of last week,” Torveld said, his gaze locked on Laurent. “You’ve cried enough for a day. Let me help you forget about your dog.”

Tears almost, _almost_ returned to Laurent’s eyes. _I don’t want to forget about Sophie._ And when Torveld’s lips brushed against his neck, he stared at the ceiling with a single thought in his mind: _I want to go home._

The thought came with a realisation that caught him by surprise: He really, truly did not have a home to go to. Fear suddenly found a space in his chest. This was the bed he had slept in for the past six years, this was his permanent and mailing address, this was _it_.

Torveld’s breath tickled his skin, and Laurent, all of a sudden, felt so exhausted that his eyes could barely focus. Torveld kissed his loose, unmoving lips. He slipped one hand into Laurent’s underwear and pulled out his flaccid cock, palming it. He kissed Laurent’s neck, his clothed chest, let go of his other wrist as well to go lower, until he took Laurent in his mouth.

Laurent threw an arm over his eyes and clenched his jaw. He knew, in the back of his hazy mind, that he could push Torveld away if he really tried. He knew that he should have. But the fear expanded in his chest, like an air balloon, pressing against his lungs and his heart. The fear of being alone again, like he had been six years ago when Auguste died. The same maddening fear of loneliness that had brought him into Torveld’s house in the first place.

Laurent was exhausted. The burn of the whiskey seemed to have remained alive in his otherwise empty stomach. His head spinned, even with his eyes closed, as though he was on a rocking boat.

He tried one last time, “Stop.”

But his voice was small, and combined with Laurent’s now still body, Torveld shrugged off the word as a residue of Laurent’s pride, given that his cock was hardening slowly in Torveld’s mouth. Laurent did not say another word for the rest of the night.

His mind wandered again, to Ios this time, to the white sand and blue sky and bluer water. To the sound of Damen’s laughter across the hall of his freshman dorm room. Almost twelve years ago, it took Laurent a single look to know Damen was the kind who turned heads with his looks, and hearts with his charm. But then, the man turned out to be kind as well, and caring, and funny, and interested in people. How could Laurent dislike him. _Why_ would Laurent dislike him, except for that Damen was fucking perfect, with a perfect fucking set of teeth, and a perfect fucking smile. Of course Laurent said yes when Damen asked him on a date. How could he not.

(Laurent tried not to hear the click of the lubricant bottle cap. He tried not to hear whatever Torveld was saying about his beauty.)

It turned out, Damen wasn’t as perfect as he looked. He had a convoluted relationship with his family, was stubborn, impatient, and a bit irresponsible, really. It also turned out, sex with him was the best thing Laurent had ever experienced. At least, until Laurent learned about the pleasure of lazily talking to Damen about nothing and everything after sex. And soon that was topped by the pleasure of talking to Damen outside of bed, of being able to rely on him and being relied on, of being able to be honest and open without the fear of judgement. And later, Laurent found out that nothing in the world made him quite as happy as watching Damen stupidly try to race a one-year-old Sophie only to lose every time and have his face licked wet and slimy. And… Well, _fuck_ , Laurent was thoroughly and defenselessly in love with him.

(Torveld’s fingers worked him open slowly, careful not to hurt him. Torveld never hurt him in bed, at least not physically.)

But being so young and so in love frightened Laurent. It frightened him because in his mind, it was clear that Damen would leave him. Because it was Damen whom everyone loved and who loved everyone. Because it was university, and relationships weren’t meant to last. And so, when Laurent found himself unable to see a future without Damen, he was frightened. They were about to graduate and Damen would, without doubt, leave him. So, Laurent left first. He told Damen that he was leaving Akielos and that he wanted to part ways with him. Damen cried that night, which confused Laurent because it was supposed to be what Damen wanted, as well. Laurent was a fool. So, he left anyway. And Damen did not forgive him for it for years after.

(Laurent gripped the sheets when Torveld pushed inside, gently, and rolled his hips exactly the way Laurent liked.)

A few months before graduation, they fucked in Nikandros’ backyard when Nikandros had practically passed out after a party. The act bordered on immoral which made both of them grin from ear to ear.

“Nikandros _will_ kill us if he finds out” was Damen’s empty warning.

Laurent was already unzipping his own jeans with clumsy fingers. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he smirked up at him.

They fucked with Laurent’s palms spread on the bark of a tree and his jeans halfway down his legs. Damen’s face was buried in the crook of Laurent’s neck as he thrust into him from behind. Neither could quite stop laughing.

“So this is how it is, huh?” Damen huffed, his hot lips never leaving Laurent’s neck. “You’re willing to fuck in a place like this just to annoy my best friend?”

Laurent scoffed, grinding his hips back into Damen. “My motives are far more selfish than that.”

Right then, Laurent caught a moving bright spot from the corner of his eye. He turned his neck quickly, eyes widening at the sky.

“Damen, look!” He pointed towards the night sky. “A shooting star!”

Meteor sightings were not too rare in Ios, so Damen snorted a laugh. “Shall we make a wish?” he asked, peppering kisses on Laurent’s neck.

“I’d rather make my wish directly to you. Here's my wish...” Laurent reached back to touch Damen’s damp neck, turning his head enough to get a glimpse of his lidded, dark eyes. “ _Make me come._ ”

“You little shit,” Damen hissed, playfully and gently biting Laurent’s neck, “I _always_ make you come.”

Laurent snickered, a moan leaving his lips when Damen gave a particularly strong thrust. “Do you have any wishes for me?”

“I do,” Damen replied and leaned closer to Laurent’s ear to whisper, “ _Come for me._ ”

“Smartass.” Laurent rolled his eyes, but gasped loudly when Damen’s hand reached around to grab his cock.

Damen only smiled next to his ear. “Come for me, Laurent,” he said breathlessly. “Come for me.”

And Laurent did. For Damen, Laurent always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. This story will have a happy ending.


	5. Lost Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

Laurent pretended to be asleep the next morning when Torveld pressed a light kiss to his head before leaving the bed and getting ready for work. His abdominal cramps — likely the result of ingesting alcohol and painkillers on an empty stomach — had forced him to curl up tightly into himself. He did not leave the bed even after he heard the front door shut.

It was a cold, gray morning. A few sparrows chirped outside the windows before it started to rain. Whether Laurent fell asleep, he did not know, but when he opened his eyes again, the rain had stopped and the room was brighter than before.

He did not have the strength to move his limbs, as though a boulder of lethargy pressed down on his body. He stared absently at the raspberry bramble wallpaper, gaze following the intricate, neverending lines of eucalyptus green leaves and burgundy fruits.

Minutes became hours, and Laurent did not move at all, as though waiting for something to happen. As though waiting for Sophie to come, circle around the bed to his side and place her head next to Laurent’s face, her warm snout almost touching his nose. He was waiting for Sophie to get bored of watching him sleep and start whining quietly, licking his face until Laurent would kick out under the blankets and groan, “Okay, okay! I’m awake!”

The leaves on the wallpaper kept going and going.

Laurent was waiting for Auguste to call midday and say, “Laurent, please, _please_ tell me I shouldn’t spend my entire paycheck on this silk Persian rug.” Laurent would roll his eyes, “You shouldn’t spend your entire paycheck on that silk Persian rug.” Augsute would let out a long, theatrical sigh, “You’re right. I really shouldn’t. Come over for dinner tonight, will you?”

Laurent could spend the entire day counting the little leaves.

_Sophie won’t come. Auguste won’t call. You are on your own._

“I’m sick of this,” Laurent whispered to himself.

With a pained grunt, he propped himself up on an elbow. He hissed at the dull pain in his lower back as he swung his bare legs out of the bed and got to his feet. He wasn’t surprised to see it was three o’clock in the afternoon.

He took a long, warm shower, washing his skin thoroughly with soap until his fingertips were wrinkled. After dressing and drying his hair, he contemplated whether to have another glass of whiskey. His stomach, however, was upset and painful enough to discourage him. Instead, he had a glass of water, made coffee, and forced a slice of buttered bread into his mouth, not because he was hungry but because he realised his persistent headache could be due to not having eaten anything for forty eight hours.

There was a note left on the kitchen counter, written in Torveld’s familiar looped handwriting:

_“I have made us a dinner reservation for six o’clock. I will be back early this afternoon.”_

Laurent threw the note in the rubbish bin. He found his cellphone in his backpack and plugged it into the charger. It took a minute for the screen to load.

_5 Missed calls from Damen._

_17 New messages from Damen._

Laurent bit his lip, and hesitantly looked at the last message from this morning.

_[7:44] Message from Damen: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m really worried. I hope you’re okay. If you need anything, anything at all, let me know.”_

Laurent scrolled up to the message before that.

_[7:28] Message from Damen: “For fuck’s sake, you can’t keep doing this every goddamn time. Sometimes I wish we never met again after you left. Just fucking tell me you’re okay, is that so hard to do?”_

Laurent put the phone away, faced down. He paced in the backyard for half an hour, smoked and drank another cup of coffee. As expected, the bread did lessen his headache and stomach pain, and took away some of the exhaustion in his limbs. His mind, however, seemed to have slowed. His thoughts were scattered, none forming a complete picture. He was going to leave, that much was clear. But how and to where?

He had enough money in his bank account to stay at a hotel for a week or two. He remembered a former colleague was looking to rent one of the rooms in her house. He could contact her to see if the room was still available. If she would be willing to waive the deposit fees, Laurent could probably use his savings to pay rent for a while until he found a job. He could rent a car and pack by tonight and move out by tomorrow morning.

Or he could leave now, before Torveld returned.

Laurent stopped in the middle of the backyard and exhaled a cloud of smoke. The sunlight was mild and warm — a pleasant contrast to the chilly air on his skin. Something curled in Laurent’s stomach with the foggy memory of the previous night. A muscle twitched in his eyebrow, and his free hand curled into a tight fist. That was the moment anger began to rise in his chest with violent, sweeping force.

For the first time since he had returned to Arles two days ago, he felt angry. Why had he stayed for so long? Why had he stayed and accepted whatever Torveld had given him, whatever Torveld had taken away from him? He felt angry at himself. For his inertia, for leaving Sophie, for not pushing away Torveld last night. What was he afraid of? Had he not lost everything, already? How much worse could it get?

Laurent was furious. Furious enough that there was no way he was going to leave before letting Torveld know.

It was around five o’clock when Laurent heard the front door open. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe before striding back inside. His stomach twisted painfully at the sight of Torveld. He tried not to think of the previous night.

Torveld tilted a questioning chin at him. “Aren’t you ready, yet? We’re going to be late,” he said, going to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Laurent clenched his teeth and walked over to the counter. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”

Torveld took a sip of water and raised a brow at him. “Darling, I’m afraid it has to wait until after—”

“Sit _down_ , Torveld,” Laurent nearly snarled through his teeth, standing by the counter. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

An unreadable expression passed over Torveld’s face. He finished the glass of water slowly and pulled back a chair, sitting at the kitchen table.

“What is this terribly important talk that can’t wait until after dinner?” Torveld drawled, crossing his legs.

Laurent could feel his heart quicken. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Stop means stop,” he said. “You _know_ stop means stop. We’ve discussed this.”

Torveld blinked up at him, arching a brow. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

Laurent’s fists tightened as he took a step forward. “What the fuck was that last night?” he spat. “You don’t get to keep going when I tell you to stop.”

Torveld only looked at him for a moment, unaffected, and let out a breath of laughter. “Laurent, must I remind you of the evidence that you thoroughly enjoyed last night?” He shook his head, rising from the chair to grab a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. “Isn’t saying 'no' to things you want just part of your habitual petulance?”

Laurent let out an incredulous huff, ignoring the insult. “I told you, _explicitly,_ to stop, and you didn’t. That’s—” Something cold and uncomfortable sank in his stomach. “That’s rape.”

The word was bitter in his mouth. It pushed a weak breath out of him. It was as though saying it out loud had only just brought the notion to life. As though it was a sudden, chilling realisation. It started a slight tremble in Laurent’s lips and made it harder to breathe. Laurent felt sick when Torveld let out a short laugh.

He turned around with his glass of wine, brows amusedly lifted. “Don’t be so dramatic,” Torveld said, walking casually to the living room. “We’ve been together for six years.”

“So _what?!_ ” Laurent almost yelled. “You think that gives you the right to—”

“This is about something else, isn’t it?” Torveld said, calmly, and turned around to face Laurent. “Are you still fucking your Akielon friend like you did three years ago?”

A muscle slid in Laurent’s jaw. His eyes narrowed. “How dare you bring that up now? How _fucking_ dare you?” Laurent growled with a new wave of rage burning his throat. “The only reason you know about what happened three years ago is that I _told_ you.” His voice was rising and he did not try to prevent it from doing so. “I told you because I didn’t want to lie to you. I told you because it was only fair to let you decide whether you wanted to stay with me. And _you_ decided you didn’t want to break up. I didn’t hide a single thing from you. If you had a problem, you should have spoken up _three fucking years ago_. How dare you bring it up now?” Laurent’s chest was heaving. He could feel his entire body shake with anger. “And it’s not any of your business what I do now. We’re _not_ together anymore.”

“Is that so?” Torveld smiled dryly before taking a sip of wine. “Since when?”

“Since you fucking _hit me_!” Laurent yelled, pointing to his bruised cheek with a trembling finger.

“Aren’t we over that, yet?” Torveld sighed. “That was wrong of me to do, yes. I already apologised, didn’t I?”

“You apologised?!” Laurent’s eyes were dangerous slits. “By what? Fucking me without my consent?!”

Torveld tilted his head back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He sighed listlessly, as though Laurent’s voice was just an irritation, as though this argument was a waste of his time, as though what Laurent said meant nothing to him.

Laurent’s fists were tight enough to hurt.

Torveld opened his eyes, looked at Laurent with steel cold eyes. “What would you have done, Laurent, if I hadn’t forgiven you three years ago?” he asked in a low voice, taking a step towards Laurent. “Would you have begged me to reconsider? Would you have dropped out of school and cried yourself into the hospital?” A crooked, mocking smirk sat on his lips as he stood before Laurent and looked down on him. “Because that’s the kind of person you are, Laurent. You give up and run away every time something goes wrong, don’t you? Isn’t that what you would've done hadn’t I been here for you when your brother died? Just look at you. You’ve cried two whole days over _that_ ,” he said, pointing to the vase on the table. “It was just a fucking dog.”

A dry laugh was pushed out of Laurent’s lungs. The reminder of Sophie’s now permanent absence clawed at his heart. This was what Torveld always did. He always handpicked the words that hurt most. He always wrapped an unfavourable topic in cruel insults to lead it astray. Torveld never really talked to him.

“I know what you’re doing,” Laurent said, a bitter curve tugging up the corner of his mouth. “I won’t play this game with you anymore.”

Torveld leaned closer, ever so slightly. “You told me, remember? You called that little lover of yours when your brother died, begged him to come back for you. Remind me, how did that go?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Oh, right, he dropped you like the worthless, peevish _child_ you were back then and still are. He left you, and that’s why you came to me, isn’t it?” He tilted his head, and sighed. “I’m glad, at the very least, he was smart enough not to waste his time on you like I did.”

Laurent opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. He looked closely at Torveld’s face with some curiosity and amusement. He knew the face well. He had seen it nearly every day for six years now. But at that moment, he thought he could not recognise the man before him. He couldn’t recognise him at all. Laurent had so much to say — so much a younger Laurent would have said — but at that moment, he realised: this man had never, not once, truly let him speak, and he wouldn’t now. Had a younger Laurent realised it, he would have shot back offenes commensurate with Torveld’s. This Laurent had wasted far too much time doing exactly that.

Torveld seemed to have expected Laurent to do what he usually did, to stoop to his level and bite back. So, when Laurent said nothing, a strange expression settled on Torveld’s face.

“I want you out of my house by tonigh—”

“I’ll be out of your house in an hour,” Laurent said and turned away.

There was nothing in the world that could keep him here for another night.

***

Fifty minutes later, Laurent was at the bus station with a small suitcase, his backpack, and Sophie’s vase. The damp evening cold had covered all surfaces with a layer of glistening dew. The bus was nearly empty when it arrived. Laurent set his backpack on the seat beside him, holding the vase in his lap and the suitcase with his feet. He watched the sky shed its soft pink as the sun slowly disappeared. The bus drove east for about an hour. Behind the window, suburban houses and buildings became more sparse as they reached the outer edges of the city.

The sky was nearly dark when he got out of the bus and walked for another twenty minutes until he reached the familiar wrought iron fence gates of the cemetery. Laurent thought the cemetery was rather beautiful in spring with its dense, healthy grass, and vibrant willow trees and evergreens. He used to spend long hours there when Auguste died. Sometimes, he even brought his books to study after his classes. In fact, the main reason Laurent had eventually stopped coming was that dogs were not allowed past the gates, and he hated to leave Sophie alone at home for longer than necessary.

He walked in the right direction almost by muscle memory until he reached a lot with a relatively young willow tree planted near its curb.

Auguste’s headstone was a simple and elegantly carved granite. Amongst the carvings, his name, and date of birth and death were legible. There was a time when Laurent could draw the headstone from memory with perfect accuracy. He doubted he could do so, now. It had been almost a year since his last visit.

The grass was damp under Laurent’s feet, so he took off his jacket and laid it down on the ground, sitting on top of it.

“Hello, Auguste,” he said quietly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I brought a friend.” He brushed his thumb on the carvings of the clay vase before placing it next to the headstone. “They let Sophie in this time.”

To this day, Laurent doubted if he knew anyone who loved dogs as much as Auguste did. Sophie and Auguste adored each other so much, in fact, that it sometimes made Laurent feel childishly jealous.

He smiled, looking up at the navy blue sky. “I have good news: I’m a doctor now.” He tilted his head to one side. “Well, not a real doctor, but, you know.” He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I almost gave up a few times. It was really hard to focus on things without you. I didn’t realise how much of the weight of my life you were carrying until you were gone.”

“I’m not sure why I’m here, but it felt like I needed to tell you a few things.” He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. “You know, I was pretty young when I realised mum and dad would never love me as much as they loved you. It wasn’t hard to see, really. You knew it, too,” Laurent smiled, “and unlike them, you never feigned ignorance about the matter. I always appreciated that, the way you were honest with me. That was your best quality — you never closed your eyes when you saw something you didn’t like.”

Laurent placed his cheek on his arm. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately: it never really upset me that mum and dad loved you more. I think it was because I always knew you loved me enough for both of them. I never really cared about what anyone else thought of me. Even when mum and dad died, it was okay, because you were there. I had never relied on them much, anyway. It was always you. Only you, in fact. And now I realise, that was a mistake on my part and really unfair to you, as well,” he said. “I don’t believe you ever thought I was a burden, but I know now that my reliance on you must have been a great deal of pressure. And I’m sorry about that.”

The leaves of the willow tree began to swing in the breeze. Without his jacket, Laurent shivered a little, pulling his knees closer.

“I was so, _so_ lost when you died,” he muttered. “I never knew such darkness existed. Really, I never knew one could get so ill with pain and remorse and come out of it alive. Which is why it’s unbelieve that I’m turning thirty in a few days.” Laurent lifted his head from his arm, and swang back and forth a little with a half smile. “Fuck, Auguste, can you believe I’m almost thirty? I should find out what that disgusting vitamin tea you used to drink was.”

The cemetery was quiet as night. Laurent looked at the moths that flew obsessively close to the light of the lamp post.

“I don’t think I can stay here, anymore,” he whispered into his arms. “Now that you and Sophie are both gone, I don’t know if I can stay _anywhere_ , anymore.” A cricket jumped near Laurent’s shoe. Laurent pulled his foot back slightly to open the way for it. “I’m really tired, Auguste,” he muttered, and pressed his closed eyes into the fabric of his sleeve. “Really tired.”

He let his sleeve absorb the few drops of tears that escaped from the corners of his eyes. He then raised his head with a deep breath, and wiped his lashes with his thumb. “Sorry, I can’t seem to stop crying these days,” he breathed out, shaking his head.

He looked up at the clay vase standing next to the headstone; at his two best friends. The two whom he loved most in the world, and the two who, he believed, had loved him most.

“Sophie, you will be okay on your own now, right?” he asked softly, the name bringing a weak smile to his lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you sleep on the bed. I would have if it was my own bed.” He could not help but reach out to touch the vase with his fingertips. “I would never have made it through the past decade without you. Thank you for everything.”

Laurent, then, pushed himself up, quickly wiping the tear that fell on his cheek, and picked up his jacket. He brushed off the dirt and put it back on, shivering where the cold fabric touched his skin. He slung his backpack over his shoulders, held onto his suitcase, and untucked his hair from his collar, drawing it to one side.

He stood before the headstone and vase, and nodded. “Goodbye for now, Auguste, Sophie,” he said. “I would give the world for another chance to tell you how much I love you.” He gave another nod before turning away. “I will see you later.”

***

Half an hour later, Laurent placed his suitcase in the trunk of a taxi, and climbed into the warm backseat.

“Where are we heading to, sir?” the driver asked, looking at Laurent from the rear-view mirror.

Laurent looked out from the window at the cloud-covered moon. It seemed as though it was going to be a rainy right.

“The airport, please.”


	6. Rest

The only thing that kept Laurent’s heavy lids from shutting was the picture of the flaming sunrise behind the window. That, and the taxi driver’s continuous attempts at making conversation, in the way strangers often did in Ios. Laurent would admit that these chats were usually more interesting than one would expect. Everyone in Akielos appeared to hold strong opinions about politics, philosophy, and poetry which were controversial enough at times that Laurent believed they were expressed for the sake of argument alone. Years ago, Laurent had found these conversations a great way to improve his Akielon.

That morning, however, Laurent was far too exhausted to engage. He had run out of dimenhydrinate on the flight, and motion sickness pressed at the base of his throat like the edge of a dull knife. He even had to breathe carefully, lest a sharp exhale make him sick. The sunrise was breathtaking, yes, but beauty simply faded when bright colours made one dizzy.

By the time Laurent dragged himself out of the car, the driver seemed to have finally noticed the green tint to Laurent’s pale face. He helped Laurent take his suitcase out of the trunk, despite Laurent’s weak protest that the assistance was unnecessary.

After the car drove away, Laurent looked up at the white apartment complex, counting the floors to the empty balcony of the twelfth floor. He slumped against the wall, squashing his backpack behind him, and leaned his head back. With closed eyes, he tried to gain balance in his half-numb legs. After a few minutes, he lit a cigarette and took out his phone to check the time. It was ten minutes past six. The cigarette’s smoke rose in curls and dissipated in the fresh morning air.

There was an uncomfortable heat in his forehead and stomach. His tongue tasted foul inside his mouth and his throat burned whenever he swallowed. Worst of all, even in the moderately warm weather, his limbs felt painfully cold underneath his skin.

The street was mostly empty, except for a few morning joggers. Across the street, a young man in activewear walked two Yorkshire terriers with trimmed hair. Laurent took a puff, held in his breath, and watched the dogs until they disappeared in the corner of the street.

An unexpected huff of laughter came along with his gray exhale. Had he really flown to Ios, spontaneously? To _here_? With a single suitcase and absolutely no plans? He had even fewer options in Ios than he had in Arles. Hotels were more expensive here this time of the year, and being a non-resident, he couldn’t rent an apartment without a letter of employment. Not to mention, his bank account was even in worse shape now with all those last-minute plane tickets.

The dry laughter tugged on his breath, “I must’ve gone mad,” he whispered, shaking his head.

He felt lightheaded, as though the ground beneath him was becoming less and less solid. He crouched down against the wall until his knees touched his chest, and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. The breeze felt cool against his burning cheeks, but it activated a shiver that was trapped under his skin.

_This is the last place I should be. In this state, this is the last place I should be—_

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and the vibration gave him such a start that he wondered whether he had fallen asleep for a moment. His heart skipped a beat at the name on the screen. He contemplated whether to answer, hoping the phone would stop ringing before he had to make a decision. When it didn’t, after a few rings, Laurent bit his tongue and tapped the green button, raising the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Laurent said, quietly.

 _“Laurent!”_ Damen’s voice was laced with surprise, as though he hadn’t expected Laurent to pick up. There was a fumbling noise on his side of the line. _“Are you— Where are you?”_

“I’m—” Laurent looked up at the twelfth floor balcony. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts. I was a bit… busy.”

 _“No, it’s okay! Sorry I’m calling so early— I was just— I was worried because I thought—”_ Damen said incoherently, his voice deep and hoarse with sleep. There was a slight rustling sound in the background. _“Hey, are you okay?”_

Laurent’s gaze dropped to the burning tip of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “No.”

There was a moment of silence and some more rustling which Laurent assumed was the sound of Damen getting out of bed. Laurent tapped the ash off the cigarette, and began to regret his response.

_“I can come to Arles for the weekend if—”_

“Don’t,” Laurent cut him off.

_“Laurent—”_

“I won’t be in Arles.”

Another moment of silence passed before Damen asked, _“What do you mean? Where are you going?”_

Laurent felt lightheaded. Even the cigarette was heavy in his hand. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

There was a sound of something sliding, followed by a soft creak. Laurent’s eyes widened as the sunlight reflected off of the opening glass door of the twelfth floor balcony.

 _“I don’t understand—”_ The small, yet unmistakable figure of Damen stood next to the balcony table, looking down at the street.

“Fuck,” Laurent swore under his breath, dropping the cigarette and rising to his feet so quickly that he almost lost balance. He saw the moment Damen’s eyes landed on him.

 _“Laurent?!”_ Damen leaned forward on the balcony railing. _“Is that—”_

“Fuck,” Laurent began to fumble for the handle of his suitcase. “No, Damen, wait—”

But Damen had already hung up as he rushed back inside the apartment. Laurent lowered the phone and passed a rough hand over his face, pushing his hair back. _I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have. Why the fuck did I—_

His knees were unstable under his weight. The shiver persisted, trapped under his skin. Keeping his eyes open seemed like an increasingly difficult task. He leaned his weight on his suitcase and brought a hand to his chest, rubbing the heel of his palm over his heart which beat rapidly enough to hurt. From the corner of his eye, he saw the entrance door of the building swing open.

Damen’s bed hair stood up messily on his head, above his wide eyes. It was clear from his worn-out t-shirt, shorts and slippers that he had not planned to be outside just yet. The shadow of a stubble was dark on his jaw as he opened his mouth.

“Laurent?!” he exclaimed, out of breath and with his eyebrows tangled in a concerned furrow. “What’s going on?!”

Laurent took an instinctive step back and nearly tripped over the wheel of his suitcase. His mouth was dry and his chest was too tight. His hand trembled around the hard handle.

“I’m—” he wrung out a weak voice, looking at Damen with burning eyes. He wanted to explain, but his mind seemed to have frozen completely. “I was about to leave—”

Damen strode to him before he could say another word, and threw his arms around Laurent’s shoulders, the impact pushing Laurent another step back. The embrace was so tight that it knocked the breath out of Laurent. Damen’s face pressed against his shoulder, his hair tickling Laurent’s ear.

Frozen in place, Laurent gasped as he heard a quiet sob leave Damen’s throat. Hair stood up over Laurent’s body. His hands shot up to Damen’s arms, trying to unravel them. Damen’s arms, however, only tightened around him, holding him even closer.

“Damen?!” Laurent nearly yelled, solely out of surprise. “What the—”

“I’m so sorry about Sophie,” Damen said, voice muffled in Laurent’s shoulder.

Laurent’s hands stilled on his arms. “How did you—”

“It’s obvious, you idiot,” Damen said weakly, pulling back and away. “There’s no way you’d be back so soon without her.” Damen sniffed and wiped his cheek. There was an angry crease between his brows. “Why can’t you just talk to me?”

Laurent forgot about his own dizziness at the sight at Damen’s damp, red eyes. “Why are you crying?!” he nearly snapped at him, unintentionally.

“I don’t know,” Damen snapped back in a broken voice, hiding his eyes behind his forearm. It was a rather childish look for a man of his age and stature. “I was scared when you didn’t call.”

No matter how many times Laurent had seen Damen cry, no matter how many times Laurent had _made_ him cry, Damen’s tears never failed to be a surprise. Laurent supposed it was something about the way Damen carried himself that made his crying so jarring. Or perhaps, it was just that Laurent had never had the heart to see him cry. And now, as Damen stood there, looking overgrown in his shorts and slippers, Laurent could not help but reach out and touch his forearm, let his fingers curl there, and gently push it away from his face.

Whatever was left of Laurent’s heart felt broken when Damen looked down at him with his clumped lashes, wet cheeks and trembling lips.

“I know you’re not okay. I knew you weren’t okay last weekend,” Damen said without looking away. “But you’ve made it clear that you don’t want me involved in your life. I try to respect that boundary, but it’s just too painful to watch you be so unhappy while you keep shutting me out.” Damen inhaled deeply and swallowed, pushing away his hair from his forehead. “And I know so much of it is my fault. If I hadn’t—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Laurent lifted his hand to brush away the thin stream of tears from Damen’s cheek. “It’s not your fault that I’ve been a piece of shit.”

Damen opened his mouth to respond, but his expression changed as he gently grabbed Laurent’s wrist. “Why is your skin so hot?” Damen asked, frowning, and lowered Laurent’s hand. “Do you have a fever?”

Laurent blinked, looking down at his hand. His skin did look slightly flushed. His knees felt as though they could hardly support his weight. Damen raised his other hand, placing his palm on Laurent’s forehead. His frown deepened.

“You’re burning,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s go inside. We can talk later.”

***

Damen’s apartment looked exactly the same as it did when Laurent had left, except for a shirt and tie that were abandoned on the couch, and a plate of crumbs on the coffee table. Guilt immediately swelled in Laurent's chest.

“Hey, I shouldn’t have come without calling. I don’t know what came over me—” Laurent said as Damen placed his suitcase next to the wall. “I will figure out by the end of today where I can stay for—”

“Sit down,” Damen interrupted. “Let me get the thermometer.”

As Damen disappeared into his bedroom, Laurent leaned a hand against the wall for balance, and struggled to take off his shoes. The weight of his backpack was threatening to topple him over. He set it next to his suitcase and walked to the couch, plopping down on it with a sigh. He could hardly keep his neck straight. He lowered his shoulder to the side until his head touched the armrest. The fabric felt cool against his cheek.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” came Damen’s voice from the hallway.

The couch sank under his weight as he sat next to Laurent. Laurent frowned and pushed himself back up with much difficulty, opening his eyes. Damen held the thermometer towards him.

“It’s sanitised,” he said, handing it to Laurent who took it hesitantly.

“I’m not sick,” Laurent said, feeling a burn in the back of his throat.

“You’re obviously sick.” Damen raised a brow, and got to his feet. “Keep it in your mouth for three minutes.”

Scowling, Laurent placed the cold tip of the thermometer on his tongue and closed his mouth. Damen went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water and turn on the kettle. When the thermometer began to beep, Laurent removed it and squinted to see the number — 38.7 C — printed on the small screen.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I guess I’m sick.”

Damen snorted, placing the glass of water on the coffee table and taking the thermometer from him.

“This is pretty high for oral temperature,” Damen said, frowning. “Do you have a sore throat?”

Laurent rubbed below his Adam’s apple. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I probably caught a cold yesterday.”

“Well, if your fever gets any worse, we need to—”

“Just give me a couple of ibuprofens,” Laurent said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Damen sighed and grabbed him by the arm when Laurent tried to lie down on the couch, again. Laurent obliged to his request to sleep in the bed instead, and made his way to the guestroom. He took out his contact lenses in the bathroom, and flung himself on the edge of the bed, too tired to drag himself to the middle. He was barely awake when Damen returned a few minutes later, sitting on the bed with medicine and water.

Damen handed him the pills and looked at Laurent’s flushed face with concern. “Should I take the day off and stay?”

“Only if you want me to die of guilt and shame,” Laurent said after taking the pills, and lying back down on his side with a pained groan. Mumbling, he added, “I’ll probably die of those, anyway.”

Damen huffed, shaking his head. “I’d better get ready for work, then,” he said. “There are some leftovers from last night in the fridge. I’ll leave out the medicine and spare keys. Call me if you get any worse, okay?”

Laurent opened his leaden lids, seeing Damen’s hand pressing down on the mattress near him. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch his knuckles.

“Damen, I— Regardless of what you say,” Laurent said in a low voice, “it’s… inappropriate of me to show up like this.”

“Aren’t you talking too much for someone with a fever?” Damen said lightly.

Laurent did not laugh. His brows pulled together slightly. “I’ll explain to you later,” he said. “There’s a lot I need to tell you. A lot I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Okay,” Damen nodded, and Laurent saw the small movement of his hand, as though he, too, was resisting the impulse to touch Laurent. “But, regardless of what you think, you’re always welcome here. You don’t need to feel guilty about anything. You don’t need to explain anything if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” Laurnet looked up, gazing at his slightly blurry face. “I really want to.”

“We’ll talk then,” Damen reassured. “But for now, just focus on getting better.”

Laurent’s lids were too heavy to remain open. He drew his knees up slightly and nuzzled into the soft pillow. His heart was heavy, so heavy that his chest felt as though it could burst open at any moment. The fever, however, was stronger. It wrapped warmly around Laurent’s head until he couldn’t think anymore.

He didn’t know if he had dreamed of it in sleep, or if Damen had reached out, brushed away a strand of hair with his fingertips, and whispered, “Laurent, everything will be all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Just wanted to let you know that my schedule has changed drastically since last week. So, please bear with me if I take longer to post. :)


	7. Memories

_“I’m so sorry about Auguste.”_

_Laurent could not stop shivering. Every breath burnt the tip of his nose, and fogged the air. The heat of his cellphone was almost painful next to his ear. It must have been the coldest day of winter._

_“Can you— Can you come up here for a while?”_

_The pause on the other end of the line clawed sharply at his chest. The cold was blistering._

_“Laurent, I’m—” Damen’s sigh sounded as pained as Laurent’s breaths. “You know my dad is dying. Kastor doesn’t show up. I’m at the hospital every day, and with school and work... I don’t think I can.”_

_Dense snowflakes fell silently on Laurent’s quivering body. His cheeks were icy enough that the renewed stream of tears felt like the edge of a knife slicing down into his flesh. Laurent wasn’t one to ask for too many favours. He wasn’t one to ask for the same favour twice. He wasn’t one to ever beg._

_Not until then._

_“Damen, please, just— just for a few days. I know we haven’t talked in a while and— and this is a lot to ask, but I don’t—” It was too cold. He could hardly feel his trembling fingers gripping the frame of the phone. His voice broke. “I don’t know what to_ do _.”_

_The pause, this time, almost made Laurent sick with a throbbing pain in his stomach._

_“Laurent,” Damen cooed regretfully, not regretfully enough, “I can’t.”_

_Laurent was shaking too hard to entirely comprehend the way in which his heart shattered. His tears fell quietly on the snow, next to his shoes. It was too cold to feel the tearing of the last thread of hope in his chest._

_“Okay,” he whispered._

_“I’m sorry.”_

Laurent’s eyes flew open as a sharp, painful inhale darted into his lungs. His frenzied heart hammered against his ribcage when he tried to push himself up, but his elbows buckled under the weight of his torso. He heaved, his entire body tangled in a violent shiver. He felt chilled to the bones while his head, throat, and stomach burned with a painful pulse.

Then, something lurched in his belly with enough force to send Laurent’s hand flying to his mouth as he quickly stumbled out of bed towards the bathroom to expel what little food was in his stomach in the toilet bowl. He remained kneeling over the toilet even after his stomach was emptied, and the nausea was replaced with painful cramps. The white tiles of the bathroom felt cool under his knees. His palm lingered for a few moments on the tiles before he pushed himself up and washed his mouth.

He dragged himself back to bed, and was thankful to find a water pitcher and a bottle of pills on the nightstand next to his cellphone. Without his glasses, and with watery eyes, there was no possibility that he could read the dosage on the ibuprofen bottle. He took three pills to be safe, and struggled to swallow them even with an entire glass of water.

Afterwards, he crawled under the sheets again with a whimper, and pulled the blanket over his head. His teeth were chattering from the chill that was trapped under his skin, as though the cold of winter in his dream had slipped into reality. His shirt was damp with sweat, and stuck uncomfortably to his torso, but he fell asleep before he could muster enough energy to do anything about it.

***

The next time he woke, he thought he was choking. The dry coughs that rattled through him were agonising enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if his throat began to bleed. The coughing fit lasted for a few minutes, until Laurent could breathe for long enough to gulp down some water. The coughs had made him lightheaded enough that he lost consciousness before his head touched the pillow.

***

_“It wasn’t meant to last,” Laurent said as he lifted one end of the desk, carrying it inside his new studio. “So, just stop it.”_

_Holding the other end of the table, Auguste arched a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”_

_“You’re giving me that look— Watch your foot—” Laurent nodded towards the sealed cardboard box on the floor, and Auguste maneuvered around it. “You’re judging me.”_

_Auguste shook his head. “I would never do such a thing.”_

_They set the desk beside the window, and opened the final box, removing its contents — mostly kitchen utensils — and placing them on the counter to rinse later. The studio was small, but it was near the university in downtown, and a thirty minute walk from Auguste’s apartment where they had left Sophie. It was all Laurent needed._

_“You think I’m making a mistake,” Laurent accused, slightly out of breath from the activity._

_“I think you should do whatever you think is best for you,” Auguste said calmly, wiping the surface of the desk with a damp cloth. “You’ve made a decision, and I will support you, no matter what.”_

_“So you do think I’m making a mistake,” he repeated, frowning defensively. “What other choice did I have? I could continue my studies in Ios, and he would eventually grow tired of me and leave; or I could come back to Arles and have a miserable long-distance relationship that would end up with him hating me. Either would be a waste of time.” Laurent threw his hands up. “I did both him and myself a favour by ending it. What do you expect of me?”_

_Auguste paused, placed the cloth on the desk, and lifted his head to give his brother a knowing look. “Laurent, I’m starting to wonder if you’re the one who thinks you’re making a mistake.”_

_Laurent’s hands curled into fists. He opened his mouth to protest, but the tears that welled up in his eyes were quicker than his defense._

_“Oh, Laurent.” Auguste’s shoulder sagged as he moved immediately, walking over to Laurent, and wrapping his arms around Laurent’s shoulders with no hesitation. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry I spoke out of turn.”_

_Laurent’s heart was too full with conflicting emotions. So full that it began to overflow around the brim. He pressed his face to his brother’s shoulder to hide the stream of tears on his cheeks. Laurent hated crying._

_“What should I do?” he asked, voice weak and broken enough that his question sounded like a plea._

_Auguste rubbed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Laurent, I’m afraid nothing I say will be the right answer,” he muttered, almost remorsefully. “Only you can answer that question.”_

_And though Laurent’s heart grew even heavier with how much he already missed Damen, he knew that Auguste was right. The problem was, he didn’t know the right answer, either._

_The studio suddenly grew cold, as though the temperature had dropped to freezing point. Auguste’s grip changed around him, his fingers digging into Laurent’s flesh hard enough to bruise. Laurent gasped, tried to pull away, but the arms only grew suffocatingly tight around him. There was a hot breath against his ear, and a riling scratch of trimmed beard that didn't belong to Auguste._

_“He’ll hate you anyway,” Torveld’s deep voice was like ice down Laurent’s spine. “Why shouldn’t he? You left him.”_

_Laurent pushed him away with full force, freeing himself. He took a few steps back, eyes widening at the sight of Torveld in his pinstripe suit and with his slicked-back hair._

_Torveld only smirked. “You worthless idiot left the only man you’ve ever loved because you were too afraid,” he hissed. “You’re a coward, darling. You’ve always been a coward.”_

_“Shut up,” Laurent snarled through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word.”_

_Torveld’s smirk grew amused, cruel. “You make him sick. You make me sick, too. I’d bet you made even your brother sick.”_

_“Shut up,” Laurent growled, trembling._

_“Aren’t you glad he died?” Torveld stepped closer. “At least, he doesn’t have to deal with a pathetic little brother who can’t even—”_

_“Shut up!” Laurent shouted, his hands flying to cover his ears._

_He crouched, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing hard onto his ears until all he could hear was the drumming of his pulse. He felt the temperature change again, grow warmer, slightly more humid. There was a soft breeze against the back of his hands. Laurent could almost hear the foamy sound of waves in the background. He opened his eyes to moonlit white sand around his shoes. His hands dropped as he raised his head, eyes widening at the sight._

_“Damen!” he called, getting up to his feet quickly._

_A twenty-something-year-old Damen stood with his back facing the ocean. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen while drops of tears fell from his cheeks into the sand. Laurent’s heart leapt. He tried to move closer but Damen took a step back to keep their distance. The full moon was large and bright behind him. A perfect circle._

_“That doesn’t make any sense!” Damen bit out with his damp gaze burning through Laurent. “What you’re saying doesn’t make any fucking sense! You’re graduating, so what? Don’t give me that bullshit excuse.” There was a deep, trembling furrow between his brows that pierced Laurent’s heart. “Why are you breaking up with me?! Why are you leaving? You don’t even like Arles!”_

_Laurent’s eyes were burning. His chest was too tight. “I didn’t want to leave— I shouldn’t have—”_

_“I’m not asking you to stay in Ios— I don’t care if you’re in Arles. You can be on the other end of the world, for all I care! We can make this work.” There was a despair tugging at Damen’s voice. A kind of despair that rarely affected him. “We’ll text and call and video chat— I’ll send you fucking handwritten letters if you want! And I’ll— I’ll come visit during the holidays, and you can come visit whenever you want— Why don’t you want to even try?”_

_It was too late. It was a decade too late. Only if Laurent could go back to that night._

_“Damen, I’m sorry—”_

_“Why are you doing this to me? Why— Out of nowhere— I don’t get it!” A fresh stream of tears trailed down Damen’s cheeks. “Why are you doing this to us?”_

_Laurent opened his mouth to say something, but a strong wave of water crawled onto the sand, whirling around his feet before he could move away. When he looked up again. Damen was gone, and the tide was rising, higher and higher and higher, until the moon disappeared behind a wall of water._

_Laurent reached out. “No, wait, please—”_

_“Laurent?”_

_The water crashed onto the ground with the force of a lightning, throwing Laurent down to the sand. He tried to shout, but his head was already engulfed in water. The saltwater burned his nostrils and throat, finding its way to Laurent’s lungs. His cries were silent. No one could hear him now._

_“No! No—”_

“Laurent! Wake up!”

Consciousness struck into Laurent’s body with a gasp loud enough to sound like a mewl. His right hand shot up to his own damp throat, as though expecting to be suffocating. His chest began to heave when he realised he could breathe.

“It’s okay, it was just a dream,” Damen’s gentle voice came from beside him. “You’re okay.”

Laurent’s wide, blurry eyes landed on Damen kneeling by the bed. Lines of concern were visible all over his face. His hand hovered above Laurent momentarily, unsure of what he could do to calm him. Laurent closed his eyes again, shivering, and tried to catch his breath. He turned his head away from Damen to cough into the pillow and stayed there, not knowing whether the wetness on his face was sweat or tears. He could still feel the chilling wave crashing against him.

“What time is it?” he mumbled. His voice sounded like a croak.

Damen’s hand finally decided to land on his arm, gently squeezing in reassurance.

“About seven,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you, but you were shouting. You sounded like you were in pain.” Damen’s hand moved to push away damp strands of blond hair from his flushed face, touching Laurent’s forehead with the back of his hand. “I guess you _are_ in pain. Hey, let’s go to the clinic just to—”

The sudden jerk of Laurent’s body cut him off. Laurent nearly tripped over as he darted out of bed, sprinting to the bathroom just in time to promptly vomit in the toilet.

Damen was by his side in no time, bunching his hair and holding it back from his face before Laurent could shoo him out of the bathroom. There wasn’t much other than water and stomach acid for Laurent to throw up, but he kept retching in the bowl until his abdominal muscles hurt. Damen’s hand was on his back, rubbing comforting circles until Laurent’s gag reflex calmed, allowing him to breathe again.

Laurent’s arms were trembling as he shut the lid and flushed the toilet. He fell back, then, leaning against the cool tiles of the nearest wall and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He drew his knees up to his chest, feeling unbearably disgusting in his sweat-drenched clothes and with his foul-tasting mouth.

Damen was sitting on his heels in front of him with his hands spread on his own knees and his brows pulled together. He didn’t say anything when Laurent looked up at him, leaning his head back against the wall. Laurent’s eyes were watery and irritated enough that he could hardly see the expression on Damen’s face. Whether it was a look of revulsion, hatred or mockery, Laurent couldn’t tell. But despite all his impulses, past all his persistent anxieties, Laurent doubted Damen’s expression would be anything other than concern.

Because that was the kind of person Damen was. Despite what Torveld said, despite what his own disarrayed mind tried to convince him of, Laurent knew the span of Damen’s emotions towards him. Towards him, indifference was as far as Damen’s revulsion and hatred would go. But, perhaps, indifference was worse. It was worse because with indifference, Damen would be nothing but kind to him, even if Laurent's mere presence was unwelcome.

A sardonic huff of laughter left Laurent’s mouth as he recognised the familiar pattern of his own thoughts, always working in circles, always landing on the worst-case scenario, irrational as a radical two. Laurent was sick of himself.

“Let’s go see a doctor,” Damen entreated.

“I’m so fucked up,” Laurent said out loud, though to himself. He sounded grimly amused.

“You’re just sick,” Damen replied, his voice woven with pure empathy.

“No.” Laurent smiled dryly, shaking his head. “I’m far worse than just sick.”

The fresh memory of his nightmares streamed into his mind, making him shiver. He looked at Damen’s blurry features and saw his crying face, eight years ago.

“Sorry,” Laurent said before Damen could. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes until he could see bright spots. “I really don’t want to go to the doctor’s now. Can we wait until tomorrow? I promise I will go if I don’t get any better by morning.”

Damen hesitated, opened his mouth as if to protest, but changed his mind. “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Get back to bed, then. And you’d better drink a gallon of water.”

Laurent snorted. “Fine.” He breathed in deeply. The cold wall felt pleasant against his back. “Would you get me something to wear from my suitcase?” he asked, not only because he didn’t think he could stand straight for long enough to get his clothes by himself, but also because he needed a moment alone to collect himself.

Damen understood. “Of course,” he nodded and pushed up to his feet, leaving the bathroom.

Laurent remained seated by the wall for a few minutes until he felt his neck could handle the weight of his head. He struggled to straighten his quivering legs and held onto the sink for balance. After rinsing his mouth as best as he could, he washed his face with a splash of cold water, hoping it would dissipate some of the mist in his head.

“Here,” Damen said behind him, holding the folded clothes out towards Laurent. “Give me a minute to change the bedsheets.”

Laurent grabbed the clothes and gave him a look. “That’s unnecessary. I’m just going to sweat all over them again.”

“You’ll be so happy to hear about this new invention called the washing machi—”

“Oh, fuck off.” Laurent rolled his eyes, but the side of his mouth curled up slightly as he placed the clothes on the side of the sink.

Damen smirked and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him to give Laurent some privacy.

Laurent removed his clothes, wincing at every drag of fabric on his skin. He wished he could shower, but doubted that his legs would be able to carry his weight for more than a few minutes. So, instead, he dampened a towel and wiped the drying sweat from as much skin as he could reach. Damen had brought his pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, which were exactly what Laurent needed. Damen had also, considerately, brought him a pair of underwear, saving Laurent another trip to his suitcase.

He felt better instantly after putting on the fresh and far more comfortable clothes. He was still lightheaded when he opened the bathroom door, but at the very least, the nausea and stickiness of his skin were mostly gone.

Damen pointed to the laundry basket in the corner of the room as he smoothed out the edges of the sheets and swathed the blanket on top. After throwing his clothes in the basket, Laurent mumbled a “thank you” and crawled back into bed. Giving into Damen’s insistence, he drank two glasses of water with the softgel capsules Damen had bought on his way home. Though Laurent usually stuck to his trusty ibuprofens, the capsules contained cough suppressants which his throat desperately needed. So, he did not complain when Damen read from the packaging that he needed to take a dose every six hours.

His head thumped down on the pillow. He looked at the ceiling which seemed to be rotating a few degrees before snapping back and rotating again. Laurent closed his eyes.

The bed dipped as Damen sat on the edge of it with a bent leg under him, and handed Laurent the thermometer.

Laurent took it without complaint and gave him a look. “You should leave the room. You’re going to catch it from me.”

Damen huffed. “I don’t get sick that easily.”

“Fucking liar,” Laurent feigned enough venom for his cursing to sound humorous, making Damen chuckle.

It was true: Damen used to catch a cold almost every winter when they were together. However, his vulnerability to illness could be mainly due to his aversion to warm coats and jackets. Back then, anything more than a single layer of clothing seemed to offend him.

Damen took the thermometer from Laurent’s mouth when it began to beep and frowned at the small screen. “Laurent, your fever’s a bit higher. Are you sure—”

“Tomorrow morning,” Laurent interrupted without opening his eyes. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

His tongue was slurring the words, making the dictions too soft, as though the muscle was too weak to move properly. He didn’t realise he had spoken in Veretian until he heard Damen sigh and reply in Veretian.

“I was making you soup,” Damen informed him. “Do you think you can have some broth?”

Laurent groaned. The thought of eating alone made him nauseated. “Don’t even talk to me about food,” he said, frowning, and rolled to his side next to Damen’s leg, head falling below the pillow. “Everything in my stomach is on fire.”

Damen hummed sympathetically and nodded. “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Laurent did. And though it felt selfish, he simply couldn’t bring himself to reject the offer. Instead, he warned, “I’ll kill you if you get sick.”

Damen snorted, and shifted his weight into a more comfortable position, leaning his back against the headboard. “I won’t get sick. Just don’t sneeze in my face.”

They remained in silence for a few minutes, until the sound of Laurent’s dry breaths evened out. With hands tucked against his chest, Laurent could feel a heavy, delirious fog wrapping tightly around his burning head, bearing down on his lids. On a night like this, Sophie would lie on the floor by the bed, standing up every once in a while to smell around Laurent’s face, as though to ensure he was still breathing.

Laurent let out a shaky exhale. He didn't want to sleep. It wasn’t worth the fever dreams. It wasn’t worth the feeling of his heart being torn apart over and over again, ever after waking up.

“You know,” he said quietly, his breath was hot against the sheets, “the worst thing about my nightmares is that they’re just… memories.”

For a long moment, Damen didn’t respond. It made Laurent wonder whether he had, in fact, said the words out loud or only in his head. Perhaps, it was only a thought that had passed his mind and never reached his tongue. Damen’s hand, however, rose a moment later, and landed gently on Laurent’s head. His fingers began to move in slow strokes, brushing Laurent’s hair.

“Is this okay?” Damen asked.

The weight of his hand almost instantly relieved some of the tension in Laurent’s forehead.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Laurent replied. He could feel the fever burning under his skin. He no longer knew if he was actually speaking. “Damen, you would tell me if you hated me, wouldn’t you?”

Did he really ask such a question? It couldn’t be. It was a question that not even his twelve-year-old self would deem to ask out loud. It was a question that gave Damen’s hand pause (which almost made Laurent groan in protest, if it had lasted a moment longer).

Damen’s hand, however, quickly returned to stroking his hair. “You think I hate you?”

Laurent considered the question. His lids separating slowly. “I don’t know what to think.”

“If you think I hate you, Laurent,” Damen muttered, his voice tender, and leaned down slightly, “you’re out of your fucking mind.” His touch was impossibly gentle against Laurent’s locks. “You’re one of the dearest people in the whole world to me. You have been for a very long time.”

Was that so? Laurent’s mind was too dazed with fever to evaluate the claim. But his heart… His heart felt lighter. What had he been doing in the past decade? In Arles, the heater always used to break midwinter in his small teaching assistant office at the university. The only reason he ever requested maintenance was that he felt bad about his students being cold during office hours. If he was by himself, he would spend the rest of the season shivering at his desk.

“I’m so stupid,” he scoffed abstractly at his seemingly random thoughts, and let out a long exhale. 

Damen disagreed, “You’re quite brilliant, actually."

Not when Laurent could barely open his lids or form a coherent sentence. He snorted. “Shut up.”

Damen huffed out. “ _You_ shut up," he said, playfully. “Take an honest compliment like an adult.”

Laurent didn't have the strength to kick him. “You’re harassing a sick man.”

"Sick men had better speak less and sleep more."

Laurent smiled. His sore muscles began to relax. He muttered a "fuck you," and nuzzled closer to Damen’s thigh, almost instinctively leaning into the comfort of his touch. The last thing he remembered was the cool skin of Damen's finger accidentally brushing against the curve of his ear. He wasn't conscious enough to be embarrassed when he thought that perhaps, fever had its silver linings.


	8. Fever Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy!  
> P.S. Your coronavirus comments are amazing and crack me up so badly.

Laurent was not better by morning.

Damen woke him sometime after midnight to ensure Laurent took his next dose of medicine, but did not push to take his temperature when he saw Laurent could barely keep his eyes open.

The next time Laurent woke, the room was bright with sunlight, Damen’s hand was on his forehead, and Laurent could not remember where he was for a long moment. Part of him wanted to believe he was feeling better, but there was no denying that he was drenched in sweat again, and could hardly pass air through his dry throat. So, he kept his promise, and did not resist when Damen said that they were going to the clinic.

After bringing Laurent’s suitcase and backpack to the room, Damen left to take a quick shower, giving Laurent enough time to change into clean clothes and wash his face. Damen was already dressed when Laurent left the bedroom, knees wobbling slightly and head throbbing with searing pain. Damen held him by the arm as Laurent slipped into his shoes, fresh sweat already forming above his brows. He turned back from the door right before Damen stepped out.

“Wait, I need my glasses,” Laurent said. “I can’t see shit.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Damen replied before Laurent could remove his shoes.

Laurent pressed his forehead to the cool door frame and waited for Damen to reappear from the guestroom. By the time they were in the car, Laurent already felt as though he could fall asleep immediately. He accepted the plastic bag Damen handed to him while assuring that it was perfectly fine if he needed to vomit. Laurent didn’t respond but thought he would rather choke on stomach acid than ruin the fresh-smelling, buttery leather of the car.

The nearest urgent care clinic was only a few blocks away. It was a small clinic, with a cosy waiting room and comfortable chairs. Damen filled out the paperwork, reading out questions to Laurent about pre-existing conditions, allergies and surgeries to most of which Laurent replied “no.”

His name was called rather quickly, and Damen was allowed to accompany him inside. A nurse took Laurent’s temperature and blood pressure, asking a few questions about his symptoms and sending him to a different room for blood work. Damen stood by the wall while Laurent sat down and rolled up both of his sleeves, knowing from previous experience that it would take a few tries to find a good vein.

The phlebotomist, who had a young and friendly face, disinfected the inside of his elbow and slowly pushed in the needle. Laurent did not react to the sting, only took in a deep breath and held it, waiting for the attempt to prove unsuccessful.

He was right: the needle missed the vein, so the phlebotomist pulled it out halfway and tried a new angle. She apologised on the third try, and pulled out the needle completely to pierce slightly lower on his arm. Laurent bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from hissing. His easily irritable skin was more sensitive than usual, and the prodding had already turned the bend of his arm a deep shade of pink.

“I’m so sorry,” the phlebotomist apologised genuinely as she decided to move to his other arm. “Your veins are so visible from your skin. I don’t know why I can’t find them.”

“Not your fault.” Laurent did his best to smile. “It’s always like this.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Damen flinch, and turned his head towards him. Damen was standing close to the wall, chewing on his thumb nail. He looked pale and nervous with his brows pulled together, and his eyes fixed on the needle in Laurent’s arm. Laurent had never known him to be afraid of blood or needles. Amused, he snorted.

“You know you don't need to look,” he said, inviting Damen out of whatever horrible thoughts he was entertaining.

Damen’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “It— it’s fine,” he said, though he did not exactly sound fine.

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Damen, just wait outside.”

“No, I—”

Laurent saw the moment Damen grew a shade paler when blood finally began to stream into the syringe.

“Okay,” Damen muttered, his voice oddly weak, “I’ll be right out here.”

The phlebotomist smiled after Damen left the room. “Your boyfriend?”

Laurent shook his head and closed his eyes. “No.”

After the blood was drawn, he was sent to another room with a row of white beds, divided by white plastic curtains. Damen helped him onto the bed and asked if he needed anything. Laurent shook his head and later refused the apple juice the nurse offered him, despite knowing that much of his lightheadedness had to do with his empty stomach.

Though he was not alert enough to keep track of time, it must have been about twenty minutes later when someone stepped into the small private section the curtains had created for him. Laurent opened his eyes and glanced at the middle-aged man in a long, white coat and with gray hair that was beginning to thin around the hairline. His dark eyes were mild behind his thick-framed glasses when he nodded towards Laurent and Damen.

“Hello, my name is Paschal as my badge claims.” Paschal pointed to the badge on his chest, but it was impossible for Laurent to read it. “I’m your physician today. You are Laurent,” he said, looking down at his clipboard, “right?”

“Yes,” Laurent replied as he pushed himself up slightly and leaned back against the pillow in a half-seated position.

“Starting your birthday in urgent care, huh?” asked the physician as he sat down on the chair next to the bed, and procured an otoscope to examine Laurent’s ears.

Confused, Laurent frowned. What day was it? Had Friday already arrived?

He gave a quizzical look to Damen who nodded with a sigh. “Happy birthday.”

Laurent did not get a chance to swear as Paschal asked him to open his mouth, so he could take a look at his throat.

“Are you Veretian?” asked the physician as he removed the disposable tongue depressor from his mouth.

Laurent raised a brow. “Is it very obvious?”

The physician laughed good-naturedly, bringing his hands to Laurent’s throat to check his lymph nodes. “Well, a Veretian can always tell when he sees a fellow Veretian,” he said, and then looked up at Damen. “Now, my guess would be that you aren’t from Vere.”

“No,” Damen confirmed, smiling, “I don’t think I could survive the cold.”

“Ah, yes.” Paschal shook his head. “The cold of Arles is why I moved here twenty years ago for medical school and never went back. Now, my daughter is in high school and wants to go to university in Arles. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.”

He asked Laurent to inhale deeply when he pressed the flat head of the stethoscope to Laurent’s chest and then his back.

He took out a pen and wrote a few notes before saying, “It’s just a cold. You don’t seem to have any infections, so antibiotics won’t be necessary.” He told Laurent to lie back down if he wanted. He flipped through the papers on his clipboard and continued, “However, your blood work shows you’re anemic. Your red blood cells are smaller than normal, so it’s probably iron deficiency, but we can run further tests to make sure it’s nothing more serious. Let’s see.” He flipped to the next page. “You were hospitalised four months ago?”

“For pneumonia,” Laurent said. “Not a pleasant experience.”

“I can attest to that.” Paschal frowned at the paper. “Huh, your previous blood work shows you had iron deficiency back then, as well. Were you not prescribed any iron supplements?”

Laurent paused. He did remember a certain prescription and a phone call from the pharmacy. “I think I was. Maybe?” he said, hesitantly. “I never— I didn’t pick up the prescription.”

“I see. You were vitamin D deficient, too,” Paschal looked up at him over the rim of his glasses. “Did they give you any prescription for that?”

“I think so.”

“And you didn’t pick it up?”

Laurent reluctantly nodded.

“Why not?”

Laurent considered the question, and replied honestly, “I— forgot.”

Damen and Paschal both looked at him for a long moment. There was a frown on Damen’s face, whereas the physician’s expression remained the same, except for a slight lift of the brows.

“Well, it’s going to take a while longer for the lab to check your iron and vitamin levels, but I assume the results will be the same as four months ago if you haven’t taken any supplements,” he said and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “If that is the case, I will prescribe you some more. Don’t forget to pick them up this time, okay?”

He, then, turned to Damen and pointed the end of his pen towards him as if to say “you make sure of that” before jotting down a few more notes and rising from the chair. “When was the last time you ate?”

Laurent thought about it. The thought of eating still sickened him. “I can’t really remember. Forty-eight hours, maybe?”

“I’m sure much of your fatigue has to do with that. I’m glad you came to urgent care, then.” Paschal slipped the pen back into his pocket. “We can give you some IV fluid. It does wonders, really, but it will take four to five hours. Meanwhile, we’ll keep an eye on your temperature. Does that sound good?”

Laurent nodded, and Paschal turned to Damen before leaving.

“Feel free to stay if you want, but he’s going to be okay,” Paschal said.

“Thank you,” Damen replied and looked round to Laurent when the physician left.

“What’s with that face?” Laurent mumbled before closing his eyes. “He said I’ll be okay.”

“I know. I’m relieved.”

Laurent opened his lids infinitesimally, just enough to see the frown that hadn’t yet left Damen’s face. Damen’s gaze was blankly fixed to the floor

“What’s the matter, then?” Laurent asked, despite feeling even more drained than when he had woken up.

Damen hesitated. He did not look at Laurent. “What do you mean you forgot to pick up your prescriptions?”

“I mean I forgot,” Laurent said, beginning to feel irritated. “There isn’t much else to it.”

Damen’s eyes shot up to lock with his. He looked almost angry. “That’s not exactly something to forget right after you were hospitalised—”

“I wasn’t hospitalised for fucking vitamin D deficiency,” Laurent snapped.

Damen’s frown deepened. “Well, it won’t take long until you will be if you keep acting like you _want_ to be sick.”

It felt as though the temperature of the room suddenly dropped. Or, perhaps, it was only Laurent’s eyes that grew as cold as their icy colour. He saw the exact moment Damen regretted his words, only a second or two after saying them.

Before either could say anything, the nurse appeared with a bag of IV fluid and a few pills. After seeing the redness on the bends of Laurent’s both arms, the nurse decided to insert the tube to the back of Laurent’s left hand. Though the needle was thinner than the one before, Laurent found it to sting even more, but didn’t say anything except a half-hearted “thank you” when the nurse left them, saying that it would take five hours for the treatment to end. Laurent glanced at the large clock on the wall. The small hand was nearing nine.

“You should leave,” he said to Damen. “You’re going to be late for work.”

“It’s okay. I’m going to call in and—”

“I would prefer it if you left.”

Silence fell between them. Damen suddenly looked farther away. Their eyes locked for a moment before Laurent looked away.

Damen passed a hand over his face before letting his tense shoulders drop. “Okay,” he replied quietly. “I’ll pick you up at around four, then. Please call me if anything happens.”

Laurent muttered an “all right” without looking at him, and waited until Damen fumbled with his car keys for an awkward moment, as though hoping for Laurent to speak. When he didn’t, Damen nodded a goodbye and walked out.

Laurent inhaled deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. When had his chest begun to hurt, somewhere deep down beyond the organs? The pulse in his head was the only sound he could hear. He threw his free arm over his eyes and tried not to think about what Damen had said. He tried not to admit that there was a painful truth to his words. Thankfully, he was too exhausted to let the truth frighten him.

***

When Laurent woke around noon, he instantly noticed that he felt vastly better. His headache had faded, his stomach was calm, and his muscles, though still sore, had regained their strength. He looked up at the half-empty IV fluid bag and followed the tube to the back of his hand. The physician had been right: the IV solution did do wonders. Laurent looked around at the white curtains, and hoped he had brought a book to entertain himself. He put on his glasses and shifted slightly to take his cellphone out of his pocket. A column of notifications lit up on his screen.

_[9:33] Message from Jokaste: “Happy birthday, old man. Sent a giftcard to your email. Would send a real gift, but I don’t know your address. Keep in touch, asshole!”_

_[9:34] Message from Jokaste: “P.S. Do you even still have my number? If you don’t, 1) fuck you, and 2) it’s Jokaste.”_

_[11:07] Message from Nikandros: “Ugh, I hate the fact that I know it’s your birthday today. Come pick up your gift next time you visit. It’s wine. Enjoy your day.”_

Laurent did not notice the small smile that crept up to his lips. There were a few other messages from his former colleagues and classmates. He decided to reply with a short thank you note to all of them. He made sure to let Jokaste know he still had her number despite his better judgement, and told Nikandros that he hadn’t lived thirty years only to be poisoned by him in the name of wine. He ended every message with a genuine thank you, but said nothing about being in Ios.

“Oh, you’re awake. Good.”

Laurent raised his eyes and saw Paschal stepping to his bed. He put his phone away and nodded.

“How are you feeling?” Paschal asked.

“Much better. Thank you.”

“That’s great.” Paschal smiled and sat on the chair. “My shift is ending, so I thought I’d check on you before I left.”

He measured Laurent’s temperature which was still above normal, but steadily decreasing. He told Laurent to take his common cold medicine every six hours until the fever had completely subsided. Apart from that, he said, Laurent only needed to drink fluids, try to eat, and rest until he regained his health. Afterwards, the physician put his pen away, placed his clipboard on his lap, and looked up at Laurent.

“So, I noticed from your medical record that you don’t have a designated primary care physician, and haven’t been to regular checkups in a long time,” Paschal said, pushing up his glasses. “That’s a bit concerning to me. We now rely so much on preventative care as opposed to diagnostic. It’s cheaper, more efficient, and really, why would anyone have to suffer from diseases that can be easily prevented? Now, I don’t want to lecture you on the merits of preventative health care, but I do want to stress the importance of regular checkups.” He nodded, contemplatively. “You’re young now, so it might not seem like a big deal, but it will be in the long run. So, I ask you to go for regular checkups, no matter how annoying they are, because they can be truly detrimental to your health.” He, then, huffed out a laugh and said, “Goodness, I talk too much, don’t I?”

Laurent shook his head. “No, you’re— Of course, you’re right.”

“In that case, let me say one more thing,” Paschal said with a polite smile. “I’m not your primary care doctor. If I were, however, based on what I’m seeing on your medical record, I would wonder if you were paying enough attention to your mental health.” Laurent’s shoulders stiffened, but Paschal continued, “Many physical problems arise from mental ones, you know. Whether mental illness causes negligence towards physical health, or if it’s the strain of stress, anxiety, and depression on the body, it can harm us in ways we don’t realise. So, even if you had the slightest concern about your mental health, if I were your primary care doctor, I would ask you if you’d like me to refer you to a psychiatrist.”

He paused, then, patiently, and waited for Laurent to respond. Laurent lowered his eyes to the floor and contemplated on what he could say. He felt his heartbeat quicken, like it used to when he didn’t know the answer to a question of his field exams.

“I’m— not going to be in Ios for long, but,” Laurent finally replied, trying to deflect without sounding rude, “I appreciate your advice. ”

Paschal paused for another moment before nodding. “Okay. Well, I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds, and that you can give some thought to what I said.” He got to his feet and smiled at Laurent. “It was very nice to meet you, Laurent. I hope you can enjoy your stay in Ios after getting out of here.”

“Thank you.” Laurent tried to smile back. “Have a good afternoon.”

“I will,” Paschal said excitedly before leaving. “I’m going to the cinema with my daughter to watch a horror film about abandonment, I think. Horror films used to be more light-hearted back in my day.”

Laurent’s half-smile did not last after the physician disappeared.

***

Damen was already sitting in the waiting hall when the nurse placed a cotton ball and a band aid on the back of Laurent’s hand, explained that the clinic would contact him when they received the full result of his blood work, and guided Laurent to the exit door.

Damen glanced up at him from his cellphone and smiled. He had changed into business formal clothing since he had left that morning.

“Hey,” he said, standing up. “Feeling better?”

Laurent nodded. “Ridiculously so.”

For the first time in days, Laurent did not feel as though the ground was spinning under his feet as he walked across the street to where Damen’s car was parked in absurd proximity to the cars in front and behind it.

“Did you parallel park here?” Laurent asked, fastening his seatbelt.

Damen’s smirk was both proud and self-aware of the potential annoyance his action may have had caused for the drivers of the other two vehicles. Laurent snickered, rolling his eyes when Damen put on a show of smoothly wheeling the car out and into the street. The drive was less awkward than Laurent had expected. Damen told him about a strange bug that had led a meeting astray which managed to get a short laugh out of Laurent, reminding him that Damen was a remarkably good storyteller, even when the subject was mundane. Neither brought up the conversation they had that morning.

“Are you feeling well enough to stop and buy some ice cream to take home?” Damen asked as they neared a popular chain ice cream shop.

Laurent’s glance lingered on him for a moment. It was a bit of a surprise that Damen remembered Laurent enjoyed ice cream whenever he had a sore throat. Laurent truly believed that the cold and creamy texture had some sort of healing property. Even if that wasn’t the case, he knew that the sugar would give him enough energy when he couldn’t eat anything else. He nodded, and waited in the car for Damen to return from the ice cream shop.

Reentering Damen’s apartment felt almost surreal. Laurent could hardly remember being there only hours ago as though the past day and a half had been nothing but a fever dream. The past week, too, perhaps, as were the past months, and years.

He tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, and kicked his shoes off. “I’d do anything for a long bath.”

Damen stored the ice cream pint in the freezer and pointed to the hallway. “All you need to do is walk to my room,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Laurent. “There’s a tub in my bathroom.”

Laurent blinked, not expecting there to be a bathtub in the apartment, and almost automatically said he didn’t wish to disturb Damen’s private space. Damen rolled his eyes and assured him that he didn’t mind. Laurent did wish for a bath badly enough that he didn’t argue, and made his way to Damen’s bathroom while the host occupied himself with the laundry.

The tub was surprisingly large. Not as large as the tub he was used to in Arles — the classic, claw-footed tub in which Laurent had spent hours and hours, and never wanted to be in again. He turned on hot water and, while waiting for the tub to be filled, grabbed the last pair of clean, comfortable clothes he had packed. The tub was only half full when he lowered his sore limbs into it, a loud sigh of relief leaving him at an instant.

His skin began to flush where water touched his body, and Laurent tilted his head back and breathed in the warm air. The bathtub used to be his sanctuary back in Arles, where he would return to the house after a long day of struggling with his dissertation or fighting with Torveld (they both only ever fought passive aggressively and with venomous remarks, for the most part, which was more draining than anything else Laurent had ever done). Every once in a while, Sophie would scratch the back of the door, and Laurent sometimes let her in. She would only nap on the floor, as though she understood this was the one slot of time Laurent had to himself, to relax and think about nothing.

He did think about math sometimes, even had to get out once or twice just to jut down an equation before returning to the tub. But he didn’t mind thinking about math. What he did mind was thinking about the past that was lost, and the present that dragged him along like the broken tip of a pencil on paper. The future, he didn’t think about much. What was the point when all of one’s future could end in a single car crash and then—

Laurent turned off the water and tried not to think. The hot water sloshed around as he sank in deeper, stretching his legs as much as he could, and let his skin soak until the water was lukewarm. Only then he reached for the bottle of shampoo and washed his hair. The minty fragrance reminded him of what Damen’s hair smelled like; reminded him that he was in Damen’s apartment, uninvited, bathing in his tub, and using his shampoo. He rinsed away the thoughts. Thankfully, Damen had begun to use conditioner at some point since university, which saved Laurent from the pain of untangling his hair later. He, then, took some time to wash his body thoroughly and kneaded where the muscles were tight.

By the time he rinsed himself one last time, the water was almost cold. He got out of the tub, then, and stood on the bamboo shower mat, bending towards the tub to wring the water out of his hair. He dressed and put on his glasses to inspect the inside of his arms. They did not look too bad, although Laurent was sure that they would bruise heavily within a day. The back of his hand, however, was still irritated and stung when he touched the skin.

To prevent accidentally scratching it, he opened the mirror door of the bathroom medicine cabinet in hopes of finding a band aid. The first aid kit was there as he expected, next to an orange bottle of prescription medicine. Laurent grabbed the kit and tried to look away, not wishing to be intrusive to Damen’s privacy. But before he could, however, (and perhaps because curiosity and a little worry lagged his movements), the small print of “Antidepressant” caught his eye. Laurent’s heart sank in his chest. An unsettling feeling began to gnaw at his stomach. He looked away quickly and opened the kit, grabbing a band aid. Laurent pressed down the band aid on his hand with enough force to make himself hiss in pain. He did not look at his own reflection when he shut the mirror door of the cabinet and walked out.


	9. You Have to Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

Laurent absentmindedly paced the length of Damen’s room, chewing on his thumb nail. The cacophony of a thousand thoughts pulsed in his temples. He tried not to ask himself questions he couldn’t answer, not to assume things he didn’t know. He failed at both. It wasn’t until the chewed edge of his nail caught on his lower lip that he stopped pacing. He sucked the small smeared drop of blood off his lip and took a deep breath before returning to the living room. A pang of pain was the first thing he felt when Damen turned to smile at him brightly, the loose curls of his hair definitely too long on the sides.

“I was starting to think you passed out in the bath,” Damen said, “or slipped and broke your hip, given that as of today, you’re very, _very_ old.”

Laurent did not laugh, roll his eyes, or raise a middle finger. His mind was filled with so much noise that Damen’s words were only incomprehensible sounds, as though he had suddenly lost the ability to understand Akielon. Damen’s smile dropped. He walked over to Laurent with wary eyes and reached out to touch his arm with his fingertips.

“Are you okay?”

Laurent blinked, swallowed, and tried to shake the noise out of his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit out of it,” he said, looking up at him. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re so old you may fall and break your hip at any moment now,” Damen said with a smirk.

Laurent snorted. “Should we just roll you off to your grave, then?” He raised a brow at Damen who grinned stupidly. Laurent realised that all he could do for now was let the warmth of Damen’s smile replace the harrowing sensation in his chest. He decided the list of things he had to figure out — _talk about_ — was by now long enough to fit another item. “Can we have some ice cream while my bones are intact?”

Damen insisted that Laurent had to have some soup before that and Laurent did not protest. Surprisingly, he was hungry, and for the first time in two days, he felt that his stomach would not reject everything he swallowed. It was nearly time for dinner, so Damen dined with him at the kitchen table. Afterwards, Damen convinced Laurent to check his temperature, and nodded approvingly when the thermometer showed Laurent’s temperature stably subsiding to normal. They, then, settled on the couch in front of the television with their bowls of ice cream, and watched an old episode of a thriller series they both liked.

The bath and the food had brought a comfortable lethargy to Laurent’s body. Having already watched the episode before gave him the luxury of slouching on the couch and paying minimum attention to what was happening on the screen. The bottle of antidepressants in Damen’s bathroom suddenly demanded denial. He wasn’t supposed to see it, anyway. It tugged at the strings of Laurent’s mind to explain it away, to forget about it, to remember that Damen looked healthy, happy, accomplished, loved and— what if it only looked that way?

“I’m sorry about what I said this morning,” Damen said, unexpectedly, snapping Laurent out of his head. “It was uncalled for and I shouldn’t have said it.”

Laurent felt his weight sink deeper into the couch. He didn’t remember much of what had happened that morning, but Damen’s words were sharp and clear in his mind. The protagonist on the screen struggled to ignite the engine of his car, turning the key over and over again.

Laurent shook his head. “No, you were right. I haven’t been taking particularly good care of myself,” he said. “I’m just— not used to seeing someone get upset at that.”

The engine finally ignited, and the protagonist slammed down on the gas pedal. Damen dropped his head, gazing at his fingers on his lap. Without realising it, Laurent did the exact same.

“That probably means you don’t have the right people around you,” Damen said, quietly.

“I know.” Laurent nodded. He was well-aware that the only one who really cared about him in Arles was Sophie, in her own simple ways. His thoughts poured out, “Sophie died on Monday. I didn’t get to see her.” In his peripheral vision, Damen looked up at him. Laurent’s fingertips pressed into his own thighs. “She was old. I should’ve prepared myself for it, but— I couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.” He determinedly swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Damen said, his voice tight. “I wish there was something more than saying ‘sorry’ I could do to lessen your pain.”

Laurent’s brows pulled together slightly as he gave Damen a look and huffed out a laugh. “You say such strange things sometimes.” He shook his head, smiling.

Damen’s expression was somber. “I do mean it.”

“I know you mean it,” Laurent absently ran a hand in his damp hair. “Damen,” he said, looking up to meet his eyes, “are you all right?”

Damen blinked. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

Damen’s eyes were the same beautiful, honest shade of brown, and Laurent hesitated. “I— Just that— I’ve been so stuck in my head that I haven’t had a chance to ask how you were.”

“I’m fine,” Damen said with a small smile.

When he did not expand, Laurent nodded and looked away. Would Damen tell him even if he wasn’t? Why would he? Laurent had no right to ask for that.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty friend,” he said. “If you even still consider me a friend, that is.”

“Of course I do.” Damen nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t be so self-criticising on your birthday.”

Laurent let out a huff, but his chest remained as tight as before. “You know, my wish hasn’t come true since I blew the candle last week.”

Damen hummed contemplatively and replied, “Maybe it will, starting today, your real birthday. You’ll have to make it come true.”

Laurent raised a brow. “What kind of bullshit wish-granting candle makes me work for my wish?”

Damen chuckled. “Only the kind that actually grants wishes.”

Those words remained in Laurent’s mind for the rest of the night as they watched the protagonist and his team slowly piece the evidence together.

***

Laurent’s fever broke the next morning and his temperature dropped to normal. He woke early, before Damen was up, and felt far better in his body than he had in a week. He dressed, smoked on the balcony while the sun was still as faint as a paper lantern, and watched the dawn from behind a thin wall of smoke. The streets were quieter than usual on Saturday mornings; even the unstoppable morning joggers needed a day of rest.

Laurent, then, spent nearly half an hour between trying to figure out the settings of Damen’s overly complicated coffee maker and finding the coffee beans. It was past six in the morning when Damen appeared in his well-worn t-shirt and shorts, his hair mussed and his eyes puffy with sleep. He gave Laurent a familiar, sleepy smile and leaned over the kitchen counter.

“You’re up early,” Damen said in a morning-rough voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” Laurent replied. “I don’t have a fever anymore.” He poured Damen a cup of coffee as Damen sat at the table. “It took me half an hour to make this damn coffee maker work.”

“Well, it took me half a month,” Damen said and took a sip of the coffee. “This is pretty good.”

Laurent took a sip from his own cup and hummed with a frown. “Doesn’t taste as good as when you make it.”

“Turmeric.”

Laurent arched a brow. “What?”

“I brew it with a little turmeric,” Damen replied. “That’s the secret ingredient.”

“Huh.” Laurent wouldn’t have guessed it.

It wasn’t until they finished their coffee that Damen actually looked awake. He glanced towards the sunlit balcony and said, “Looks like a nice day outside.” He turned his eyes to Laurent. “What do you want to do today?”

“Figure out what I’m going to do.” Laurent replied, eyes low, tracing the floral pattern of the cup. “I don’t really have any plans, which is stupid of me, but it is what it is.”

“I take it you’re not going back to Arles?” Damen asked, gingerly.

Laurent hated his careful tone, as though speaking to Laurent was like walking on cracked ice. “Not unless I have to.”

Damen did not ask why, did not ask anything. He paused for long enough to give Laurent time to speak, and when Laurent didn’t, he said, “Well, I’ve promised to take Ida and Ella to the museum this afternoon. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but if you’re feeling well, I think it will do you good to get out and clear your head.”

Laurent opened his mouth to list all the things he had to do: he had to apply for jobs, look for a cheap room, figure out for how long he could stretch his savings, get back on his research which had seen no progress in weeks— But the mere thought of the tasks made him feel drained to the point of pure fear. Perhaps getting out would help clear his head, after all.

He nodded, agreeing to go, and did not miss the wide, approving smile on Damen’s face. Damen, then rose to cook pancakes for breakfast while Laurent drank his second cup of coffee.

***

Kastor’s house was a gated mansion by the ocean. Laurent’s brows rose at the reminder of the wealth of Damen’s family. It was easy to forget if the only member of the family one knew was Damen. Laurent still remembered how Damen stubbornly refused to ask for money from his father when they were in university, even when he had to choose between paying rent and replacing the brakes on his bicycle.

( _“You’re going to break your neck,” Laurent said, rolling his eyes._

_“It will be fine. The front brakes kind of work,” said Damen._

_“Kind of?”_

_“Well…”_

_Thankfully, Damen’s birthday was close, so he didn’t complain too much when Laurent bought him the brake replacements._ )

The two children ran towards the gates with loud footsteps. Laurent saw the tall figure of Kastor behind them. Kastor nodded at Laurent, raised his hand as a rather cold gesture of greeting and Damen raised his in return. Neither lingered nor attempted to speak before Kastor turned away from the gates. Laurent saw the glint in the twins’ eyes when they saw him in the passenger seat and smiled privately.

“Laurent!” came Ella’s boisterous voice as she hopped into the backseat, followed by Ida. “You’re back! Are you staying in Ios? Have you been to The Museum of Natural History? I almost ate a bug today!” she announced, immediately forgot about all her questions, and turned to lean over the driver’s seat. “Uncle Damen! Can we see the dinosaurs first? Can we?!”

“Only if you sit down and wear your seatbelt,” Damen replied, completely accustomed to Ella’s hyper-enthusiasm about everything.

“I want to see the live tarantula feedings,” Ida said, with her seatbelt already on. Laurent noticed that her dark hair was now short whereas Ella still wore hers pigtails.

The Museum of Natural History in Ios was world renowned for its collection. Laurent had been there a few times many years ago, but mostly avoided it due to the crowd. As always, the building was packed with children and adults alike, which prompted Damen to set ground rules about how far the twins could go without them and what to do in case they were lost in the building.

They spent the next few hours with the fossils, dinosaur skeletons, bush elephants, blue whales and extinct birds. Ella’s eyes would round at almost every exhibit and had to be reminded that she could not press her face to the glass. Ida, too, seemed more excited than usual. She liked to pause at every exhibit and read the information board, which annoyed Ella as she was ready to move on.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when Ella said she needed to use the restroom and she and Damen went to search for the restroom signs. Laurent, whose legs were beginning to tire, decided to sit down at an empty bench near the spiders exhibit. Ida sat beside him, eating a granola bar.

“That’s a nice haircut,” Laurent said, glancing at her.

“No, it’s not,” Ida groaned. “I had to cut it. Someone in school stuck gum in my hair because I didn’t let him copy my homework.”

“What an asshole,” Laurent said, and when Ida snorted a laugh, he added, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

“He got in trouble, so it’s okay.”

Laurent felt obligated to remind her: “You know that if someone is bullying you, you should let your teacher and parents—”

“Yes, I know.” Ida rolled her eyes. “You think I’d let them get away with it?”

Laurent smiled. “No, I suppose not.”

“What’s up with you? You look like you’ve been punched in the stomach.”

The side of Laurent’s mouth twisted. He looked down at his kneecaps that looked sharp under the fabric of his trousers. “I’ve been a bit sick,” he said vaguely.

Ida glanced at him. “Is that why you're back?”

“I don’t know.” Laurent wished she would stop asking questions.

“Are you dating Uncle Damen?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

Laurent arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because you look at him weird. Like you like him.”

 _It’s that obvious, huh?_ Laurent didn’t respond.

“I think he likes you, too,” Ida said. “He keeps smiling when he talks to you.”

“Put your brain to better use,” Laurent said, nodding up at her. “Go solve global warming or gawk at those insects over there or something.”

“Spiders are not insects. They are arachnids.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The rest of the day passed quickly. They watched a museum educator feed crickets to uncomfortably large tarantulas before closing time, and left for an early dinner. Ella chattered nonstop about the new things she had learned and adventures she had had, with Ida occasionally interrupting to correct her inaccuracies. Laurent was surprised to find himself entertained. The twins were funny, and despite their age, they chose all the right words and expressions to tell their stories. Laurent wondered if the trait simply ran in the family. Regardless, the girls managed to get more than a few chuckles out of the adults and even taught Laurent some new Akielon slangs.

By the time they were back at the gates of Kastor’s house, the sun was already meeting the western horizon. The girls, now significantly less energetic than earlier, said goodbye to Laurent. Damen left the car to walk them to the gates. Laurent placed his elbow on the open window frame of the passenger seat and leaned his head against the heel of his palm, enjoying the fresh evening air against his skin. He saw Ella reach up to grab Damen’s hand.

“You always say you’ll come in next time, but you never do,” she said, pouting.

“Did you and dad fight again?” Ida asked with a sad tone wrapped around her serious voice.

Laurent shifted in his seat. He could not help but feel that he was listening to a private conversation.

“No,” Damen replied, bringing one knee to the ground so that he could see the children eye to eye. He said something to them quietly that Laurent could not hear. The twins nodded reluctantly in response, accepting but not satisfied. Ella wrapped her arms around Damen’s neck. Damen returned the hug with one hand and thoroughly ruffled Ida’s hair with the other before letting the two go. He waited until the girls entered the front door before returning to the car and pulling away from the driveway.

“Your nieces are surprisingly good company,” Laurent said, holding his hand out of the window to feel the wind. “And I don’t even like kids.”

Damen chuckled. “They’re really good kids,” he said. “They remind me of what really matters.”

 _What does really matter?_ Laurent looked out at the darkening sky and wished he had a cigarette on him. The cool wind was pleasant, but not a great alternative to nicotine.

***

Laurent grabbed a cigarette as soon as they arrived at Damen’s apartment. Beyond the balcony railings, clouds had covered the entire span of the dark sky. Laurent tried to guess the phase of the moon: Waning gibbous? Third quarter? He couldn’t tell. The dulled edge of anxiety was beginning to prod at his chest again. He looked down at the lit up street, where someone’s loud laughter filled the air. It reminded him of Auguste who always laughed unreservedly, a trait he shared with Damen, a trait Laurent used to adore in both. He would never hear Auguste laugh again, and Damen appeared far more mild mannered than he used to be. As though by cue, Damen joined him on the balcony a moment later, with two steaming cups of tea.

He sat down at the table, and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to rain tonight,” he said, sliding a cup to the other end of the table.

Laurent put out his cigarette and sat down across from him. “It was fun today,” he said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

He took a sip of the chamomile tea and sighed as the warmth of it flowed through his body. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, until Laurent realised how much he missed talking to Damen. The problem was, he didn’t know where to start. _Now is as good as any time, I suppose_ , he thought, gazing at the clear honey-coloured tea and breathed in.

“I ended things with Torveld,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing in Arles for me to go back to.” Feeling his heart speed up, he did not raise his eyes from his cup,

Damen’s voice had the careful rhythm Laurent hated, “You have a life in Arles outside of Torveld—”

“I really don’t.” Laurent looked up at him and swallowed his own shame. “It’s fucked up, I know, but I have nothing. I’ve done nothing in Arles in the past six years except get a degree.”

“That’s not a small achievement.”

“I suppose. But it hardly matters when I’ve lost everything else, as Torveld liked to remind me.” He let out a dry huff of laughter, shaking his head.

An appalled frown clouded above Damen’s eyes. “He was wrong, then. Horribly wrong.”

“Yeah, I know.” Laurent’s fingers played with the rim of his cup. “He’s a rather convincing man, though.”

“What is going on between you two?” Damen asked, his frown unwavering. “You’ve been with him for six years. You always avoid talking about him, but if he’s the kind of person who tells you shit like that, why—”

“Because I’m a coward,” Laurent said gruffly, his eyes low because he didn’t want to see the look on Damen’s face. “When Auguste died, I didn’t know what to do with myself.” A bitter smile sat on the corner of his mouth. “In the beginning, I used to think Auguste would disapprove if he knew, at twenty four, I was seeing someone twenty years older than myself. But I was too fucked up to care. I’d taken leave of absence from school. I was thinking of dropping out altogether. Sophie was pretty much the only reason I ever left my apartment. I was barely eating or sleeping.”

Laurent shuddered with the memory of the first few months. Of lying awake in his bed until sunrise, noon, sunset, midnight, sunrise again, as though his body and mind were paralysed. He was twenty-four then, no longer a child, no excuse for feeling as though his life had ended and his body had not yet realised it. But that was exactly how he felt, with the single difference of being old enough to be ashamed of himself. He had learned the hard way that grief and shame did not mix well together.

“Torveld used to work with Auguste in the past and reached out to me at the funeral. He seemed genuine, seemed to… care,” Laurent said, shaking his head as his own foolishness. “I doubt I was really thinking about what I was doing at the time. It didn’t matter. I moved in with him a month later. And it wasn’t bad in the beginning. It was better than living alone— I was losing my mind in my own apartment filled with Auguste’s old furniture. This was at least… better.” Laurent’s mouth felt dry, but he didn’t stop. “I was determined to ignore all the red flags. In retrospect, maybe I was just trying to fill the void of my brother. I don’t know. I can’t remember when things changed. Maybe it was earlier than I think, but there was a point when I realised we didn’t really like each other anymore. Maybe we were always only using each other, I don’t know. But in recent years, things only got worse. Sometimes it seemed like he enjoyed humiliating me, just to see me snap at him.” Laurent rubbed his forehead and shook his head incredulously. “I let him get away with things I didn’t imagine I would ever tolerate.”

A car honked ferociously in the background, followed by an angry roar of the engine. Damen remained silent for long enough that made Laurent swallow. His fingers tugged at each other on the table, curling there around the cup. He wouldn’t blame Damen if he thought less of Laurent now. Laurent had no excuse for his naivete, for his inertia. Auguste, while he lived, never let Laurent fall. Since his death, Laurent had done nothing but falling. He wouldn’t blame Damen if he was appalled.

“Does he— hurt you?”

Laurent’s eyes shot up. Damen’s frown had changed shape, turned into a shadowed mark of concern. He saw Damen glance at his left cheek for a quick moment, and Laurent’s heart sank in his ribcage. He flushed, looked away, his hand rising on its own as though trying in vain to cover the fading bruise on his cheek.

“No.” He stammered, “No, this is— It was the first time he— He never— “

Damen’s voice was sewn with anger this time. “You don’t need to defend him—”

“I’m not defending him!” Laurent snarled, pushing up from his seat. “Don’t look at me like that. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“ _You_ wanted to talk,” Damen snapped, his voice rising. His hands curled into fists on the table. “Stop acting like you don’t need help. Everybody fucking needs help.”

Laurent’s chest puffed as he prepared for a sharp response, a response hurtful enough to end the conversation immediately. Laurent had gotten very good at that in the past years. But when he looked at Damen, he saw an expression on his face that stopped him. Damen looked as though he was already hurt, as though Laurent had already broken his heart. That was far from what Laurent wanted. It was the last thing he wanted. His shoulders dropped. His lips pressed together as he nodded.

“You’re right,” he said, because it was true. Laurent was the one who wanted to talk. “I’m sorry.”

Damen dropped his eyes, too. “No, I’m— _fuck_ ,” he cursed under his breath, passing a hand over his face. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just— I worry about you, Laurent.”

Laurent bit the inside of his cheek and nodded again, sitting back down at the table. “You never bought the cabinet story, huh?”

Damen shook his head, as though admitting to a wrongdoing. As though he was the one who’d been dishonest. Laurent almost laughed at that. Damen often looked guilty of crimes he hadn’t committed. Laurent was terribly fond of him.

“I suppose it was a stupid lie.” Laurent smiled dryly and inhaled. “I called him out for his hypocrisy at a fundraising event he was hosting. I was a little drunk, I admit. But his speech was full of shit and it got to me. We fought after we got back home and,” he pointed to his cheek, tried to futilely shrug away the memory, “he slapped me.” He could not help the incredulous laugh that left his throat. “I was so shocked that the next morning I wondered if it had actually happened. And then it started bruising.”

He saw the flinch of Damen’s hand on the table. “Fuck,” Damen said under his breath. What else was there to say?

Laurent shrugged again. “I’m just embarrassed it took me until this happened to realise I needed to get out.”

Damen’s voice was strained but soft, “You made the right decision.”

Laurent snorted. “That's got to be a first in a long time.”

Damen leaned in to search his eyes. “Laurent, you _have_ to know,” he said in an urgent voice, “I’m here for you in whatever capacity you need me. I know it feels like you’re alone, but that's not true. It's far from true. You have to know this.”

Laurent looked up to meet his eyes. He swallowed the lump of pain in his throat at the sight. He could not help the first thought that came to his head, no matter how absurd it was: Damen was beautiful, excruciatingly so. It almost made Laurent laugh. It overwhelmed his senses so much that he opened his mouth to say what was on his mind, the only thing that was on his mind in that moment. A younger Laurent would have said it. This Laurent knew better than that. He closed his mouth and looked away.

Damen did not allow it. “You wanted to say something just now.”

Laurent looked down at his fingers and smiled. “Now would be the worst timing for me to say it.” He shook his head.

But Damen was stubborn. He hadn’t changed that much, after all. “Just say it,” he insisted, and Laurent heard the sudden curiosity in his voice. “There’s no such a thing as ‘good timing’ for saying difficult things.”

Laurent looked up. Perhaps Damen was as much of a fool as he was. Laurent felt his heartbeat below his throat. Could it be that Damen did, in fact, want to hear what Laurent wished to tell him so desperately and for so long? He had said these words to him before, many times, and Damen had never failed to say them back. It was different now, Laurent already knew. They were different now, and everything else was. Laurent had to know better than to say it now, even when his heart was misbehaving like this.

He said it nonetheless. “I love you.”

The noise in the background dulled as though even the street had heard Laurent’s voice and sharpened its ears.

“You don’t need to respond,” Laurent said. “I just need— want you to know.”

Damen sat as still as stone. His brows untangled from the frown, and his lips parted slightly. He looked confused, as though he was about to ask Laurent to repeat what he had just said.

The corner of Laurent’s mouth turned upwards. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes,” Damen replied with no hesitation. His brows began to pull together again.

“I see.” Laurent huffed casually, trying to calm his heart. “Even though I kissed you only a week ago?”

“I didn’t— I thought you were only interested in— sex.” Damen’s response sounded more defensive than Laurent imagined he intended. “Don’t get me wrong, I love having sex with you, but— that’s an entirely different thing from— I had no idea…”

Laurent nodded. “It’s okay,” he said, steadily. “I don’t expect you to feel the same. That would be ridiculous.” Laurent would never admit it even if he thought otherwise.

Damen looked down, his eyes still bewildered. “Maybe you were right about the bad timing,” he whispered.

Laurent snorted at Damen’s rounded shoulders, and kicked him gently under the table. Apparently, that was enough to give Damen a start.

Laurent gave him a look and snorted another laugh. “Relax, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “It’s not a big deal.”

The speed of his pulse, however, was beginning to feel sickening. He breathed in deeply before rising from the chair. He felt lightheaded, but not exactly in the same way as usual. His chest was somehow lighter, despite his hammering heart. He gave Damen a small smile, a peace offering, though there had been no war.

“Good night, Damen.”

Laurent did not look back when he left the balcony, but somehow, he knew that Damen stayed there in the small, uncomfortable chair, unmoving, for hours later.


	10. Knowing Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this belated chapter! :)

It rained all through the night, soft and persistent, until the red and green of every traffic light reflected off of the surface of the streets. Laurent woke just before dawn to a cool breeze coming in from the open window. It carried the familiar smell of damp grass and asphalt. There was a strange lightness in his body, as though he had woken from a long rest after vigorous exercise.

He washed his face, dressed, and made the bed. Then, quietly, he pocketed the spare keys Damen had left out for him and stepped out of the apartment. The street lights were still on when Laurent intentionally stepped into a small, clear puddle of water on the sidewalk in front of the building. The weather must have cooled several degrees since the day before, and the streets were even quieter than they were on Saturday mornings.

Laurent slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket and strolled down the sidewalk. He used to do this with Sophie every day, first thing in the morning. It used to be the only matter pressing enough to get him out of bed, and the only activity that seemed to lift the exhaustion that all those bad nights of sleep carried over to a new day. He sometimes walked Sophie for long enough to ensure Torveld would be gone to work by the time they were back. His days always went better if Torveld was not the first person he saw in the morning.

Laurent walked past familiar streets with closed, quiet stores that were new and old ones that were loved. A car or two passed by occasionally. He could tell from the registration plates that most were from out of town, likely tourists, travelers, or on a business trip. The thin layer of water that covered the roads sharpened the sound of their spinning tires.

Laurent walked through the empty park until he reached the white building of the public library where he had spent many days of his life. He used to come here when the university library got too crowded too suddenly during the final exams season, as though the entire student population had just learned about the existence of such a place and would forget about it again immediately once the exams were over. Damen used to be one such student, too, except he had soon fallen into the habit of following Laurent to the public library, claiming that he retained information better when they studied together. Laurent supposed it was at least partially true, as the practice forced Damen to sit down in silence over his books when nothing else in the world could.

He wiped the damp surface of a bench with his sleeve and sat down, watching the brightening sky above the high, white roof of the library. Events of the previous night streamed into his head. He could not bring himself to regret anything he had said, though he had said far too much. Perhaps it was better this way: less dishonest, less secretive. He never liked secrets, anyway, nor had he ever mastered the art of lying. Not to someone like Damen, at least. If anything, Damen deserved better than to be kept in the dark. Laurent had shown up at his apartment distraught and uninvited, had been in love with him for a damn decade — he owed Damen the truth, at the very least.

It was better this way for himself, too, Laurent thought. Now, instead of reveling in the impossible and the absurd, he could try to move on. Move on from the mess he had created for himself in Arles, and the unrequited feeling he had kindled in his heart for too long. He supposed both would take time, and one would be particularly painful, but it was all right. Laurent had never expected to have everything he wanted. Now, he could try — truly try — to move on. He owed Damen that much.

He crossed his legs and looked down at the tips of his well-worn leather shoes that, with good care, had lasted him many years. He realised, for the first time since leaving Arles, that it wouldn't be difficult for him to find a job. No, with his background, it would be _easy_. The fact that he didn’t already have one was really only because he had placed all of his eggs in one basket: The University of Ios — arguably the top mathematics department in the world, with likely tens of applicants for the position just as or more qualified than himself. He really hadn’t thought it through. He had anticipated that he would have more time to figure out an alternative plan if he did not receive an offer from Ios. He no longer had the luxury of waiting too long for the university’s decision, and decisions could take a while for these sorts of positons.

But that wasn’t the end of the world. He could find a job elsewhere in academia. The worst case scenario would be having to accept a position in the private sector which he would despise, but would pay well enough to get him back on his feet. It would become much harder to make his way into academia if he were to opt in for such a gap, but he could find a way to get back to his research in a few years. There were far worse fates than that.

What had he been so worried about?

The sky was a bright shade of blue by the time he headed back. People and cars were slowly beginning to pour into the streets, enjoying the last day of the weekend. Laurent’s eyes followed a few excited dogs trotting in front of their owners, some with their tongues out, some wagging their tails, all happy and content. Laurent smiled and let himself miss Sophie with all of his heart. He let himself wonder how long it would take until he was able to adopt a new dog. He had to make that a priority.

The spare key was still in the keyhole of Damen’s front door when the door swung open from the inside. Damen’s figure appeared on the other side, clutching his cellphone in his free hand. He was still in his pajamas, hair mussed and eyes wide with worry.

“Laurent!” he said hoarsely, perusing his face.

Laurent blinked, pulling the key out of the lock. “Hi.”

Damen’s voice was strained. “Where did you go?”

Laurent gently shouldered past him into the apartment and took off his shoes. “I went for a walk. The weather was nice.”

Damen slowly closed the door behind him, his back facing Laurent when he said, “I thought— you’d left.”

 _Left...?_ Laurent raised a brow at him. “My suitcase is here.”

“I know…” Damen said, turning around with a loud exhale. “Your door was open, you weren’t there, and you didn’t answer your phone, so...” He left the sentence dangling.

Laurent shrugged. “I didn’t have my phone on me. It’s probably dead somewhere in my bag.”

Damen nodded, shoulders slumping in what appeared to be exhaustion. “That makes sense.” He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t know why I got so scared for a minute.”

 _Why would I leave like that?_ Laurent inhaled deeply. “Okay, well, I really need to get some work done today, so don’t persuade me otherwise with fun activities.”

Damen gave him a small smile. “All right.” He, then, yawned, his tired eyes tearing up, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. “I have some errands to run today, so I probably won’t be back until afternoon.”

Laurent hummed an “okay” as he walked to the guestroom to grab his laptop. He settled on the couch afterwards, taking a deep breath to drown out the anxiety that came to life along with the home screen. Damen handed him a cup of coffee minutes later and sat on the other end of the sofa, near the window. He faced away from Laurent, looking absently at the brown sparrows that chirped on the railings of the balcony. The quiet but incessant tapping of his index finger on the cup he held in his lap, however, was visible in Laurent’s peripheral vision.

Laurent sipped at the particularly strong coffee. Damen had sweetened it for him, as he always did, with what Laurent imagined was his regular two teaspoons of sugar. But the coffee was rich enough that morning that it tasted far more bitter than usual. He glanced at Damen, who was still tapping on his cup. His shoulders looked painfully stiff, as though he was holding his arms too close to his body.

Laurent took another sip of the bitter drink. “Are you okay?”

Damen turned his neck so quickly that it made his coffee slosh around dangerously near the rim, a few drops sliding down the white surface of the cup which Damen wiped with his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied without making eye contact. “I’d, uh, better go get ready before it gets too late.”

He placed the cup on the coffee table and rose to his feet, turning around briskly. Laurent glanced at Damen’s untouched coffee and pulled his attention back to his emails before his mind could begin to wander.

***

The coffee did not taste as good as usual, but two cups of it kept Laurent alert and focused for the rest of the day. He worked inside through most of the morning, until the silence of the apartment became too eerie, compelling him to move to the balcony with his half-empty pack of cigarettes. He went through tens of emails, answered some and composed new ones. He reached out to his former dissertation advisor, asking for guidance regarding application timelines and available opportunities. The professor responded within twenty minutes with a list of actions Laurent could take as well as information of his personal contacts at different universities whom he said would be happy to speak to Laurent.

Laurent spent the few hours after preparing tens of pages of application materials, until he felt he would vomit if he had to look at his own CV one more time. For that reason, he turned his attention to finding an affordable housing option in Ios, which quickly proved discouraging as the city’s rent prices seemed to have skyrocketed in the past decade. Prices in the outskirts of Ios, however, appeared to be much more reasonable. So much so that Laurent decided it might be a more feasible option to find a space right outside the city and buy a cheap, second-hand car so that he could drive in every day.

It was past five o’clock when a sudden fatigue reminded him that coffee was all he had consumed that day. He put his laptop away and stretched his arms and neck before going back into the quiet, empty apartment. He peeked inside the fridge, and found most ingredients of red wine beef stew. He wondered if Damen would be hungry when he returned. Laurent’s recipe used to be his favourite rendition of the dish long ago, but Laurent had reasons to believe his own cooking skills had improved since university. He decided to make dinner for both of them.

The task kept him busy for the next two hours, by the end of which he could hear his stomach growling at the stew that had turned out rather delicious. He looked at the clock hand ticking to the right of seven and decided it would be no fun to eat alone. He picked up one of Damen’s books from the shelf and settled on the couch. It was an Akielon novel by an author he hadn’t heard of, and about a middle-aged woman who lived with the crippling fear that her discontent with life would be discovered by her loving husband and daughter. The thrill of reading fiction for pleasure was something Laurent had almost forgotten in the past six years. He was quickly so captured by the story that when he heard the click of the door unlocking some time later, he was surprised to see it was already past eight o’clock.

He made note of the page number before putting the book away. “You’d better be hungry because—” His tongue lost the words when he looked up and met Nikandros’s dark eyes. Leaning limply against him was Damen, with his arm wrapped loosely around Nikandros’s neck. Laurent’s heart dropped in his chest. He sprang up from the couch. “What happened?”

“Nothing. He’s just drunk.” The few drops of sweat on Nikandros’s forehead revealed the strain of Damen’s weight on his shoulders.

Damen shifted unhelpfully, his feet stumbling in place, and lifted his head with a weak smile. “Hey, Laurent,” he said, strangely fluent for how flushed his face was. “Nik wouldn’t believe you were here.” His brows, then, pulled together as he doubled over as much as he could and held onto his stomach. “I think I’m— gonna be sick.”

“Okay, hold on.” Nikandros tightened his grip around him methodically, and pulled him along towards the bedroom. “Move,” he said tersely to Laurent who complied immediately and stepped aside, letting Nikandros lead Damen to the bathroom.

Laurent stood by the open bedroom door, and swallowed at the pained, muffled sound of Damen’s retching into the toilet. Minutes passed before that was replaced by the sound of running water and Nikandros saying something calmly. A few more minutes later, Nikandros appeared from the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“Is he okay?” Laurent asked, folding his hands into the bends of his arms.

“He’s fine. Just needs to sleep it off.” Nikandros’s voice was cold when he looked up at him. “What’s going on? Why are you in Ios?”

Laurent hesitated, breaking the eye contact, and gave a lopsided shrug. “I’m going to crash here for a while, I guess.” He added quickly, “Not for long, of course, just until— well—”

“What the fuck, Laurent?” Nikandros demanded. “You disappear for fucking years and all of sudden you come back twice in a week and now you’re _‘crashing’_ here and Damen’s like this?”

Laurent’s head snapped back towards him. “What are you trying to say?” Blood rushed to his ears. “Since when am I responsible for what he does?”

Nikandros’s brows were heavy above his eyes. “Since never. You haven’t been here.”

“I know that!” Laurent hissed. “You don’t need to remind me. I know I haven’t been here.”

The two glared at each other for a long moment before Nikandros dropped his head and breathed out. “Okay.” He rubbed his forehead with frustration. “Are you free tomorrow? Let’s talk over lunch.”

“Fine,” Laurent replied curtly before giving himself a chance to ask what he wanted to talk about.

“I’ll text you the address,” Nikandros said as he walked past Laurent towards the front door. “I trust you’ll make sure he doesn’t die of dehydration?”

Laurent shot him a dirty look, but bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from replying until Nikandros was out of the apartment. Silence returned to the room. Laurent exhaled, his shoulders slumping forward, and raised a hand to rub at his eyes under his glasses. He should have known the day had been too tranquil to last. Perhaps Nikandros was right to imply it was Laurent’s fault. Perhaps he did carry trouble wherever he went.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sound of a heavy object dropping to the ground in the bedroom. Startled, Laurent’s heart sank deeper as he rushed to the bedroom and swung the door open. He caught a glimpse of Damen’s form before Damen dashed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. His antique-looking, porcelain night lamp had fallen off of the nightstand. Its shades lay separated, but the porcelain body remained in one piece. Laurent picked up the lamp and put it together on the stand, thankful that the sound had not been of Damen hurting himself.

He waited in the bedroom until Damen was no longer throwing up. The buzz of an electric toothbrush filled the silence after, until Damen opened the door. His skin had taken a sickly pale colour, and his eyes were red under his heavy lids. Laurent frowned.

Damen smiled at him sheepishly. “Hey,” he said, gripping the bathroom door frame to keep his balance.

“Go lie down,” Laurent replied, not unkindly. “I’ll get you some water.”

Damen had obediently returned to bed by the time Laurent returned with a large glass of water, and drank it without complaint.

“I feel like shit,” Damen groaned as he lay back down and closed his eyes.

Laurent pulled the light blanket over him. “Yes, clearly.”

“No, I,” Damen said, face darkening under a deep frown when he opened his lids slightly, “feel like shit all the time.” The frown turned into a sardonic huff of laughter.

Something painful trembled in Laurent’s throat. “You should sleep,” he replied. “Do you need anything?”

Damen shifted, raised a heavy hand to grab Laurent’s, nearly tugging Laurent forward by its weight alone. “Can I kiss you?” Damen rubbed a clumsy thumb over Laurent’s knuckles.

Laurent looked down at him. Damen’s skin burned over his. He replied quietly, “No.”

With exhausted eyes, Damen held his gaze. “Last night you said— Why would you say that? It’s not funny.”

Laurent’s chest was tight. “Damen,” he whispered, only so it would not sound like a warning, “go to sleep.”

“I’m getting old.” Damen let out a soft chuckle. “I used to do this every night. I never threw up so much. I just cried.” His lids fluttered. “Pathetic either way, I suppose.”

Laurent kept his voice steady. “Do you want more water?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you’re very drunk,” Laurent replied. “And that you’re going to be very sick tomorrow if you don’t drink water and sleep.”

Damen’s fingers tightened around Laurent’s. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m just going to the kitchen.”

“Don’t leave me.”

Laurent’s fingers were beginning to grow numb under the pressure. He looked down at Damen’s half-awake form, the pressed line of his mouth, the tightly drawn eyebrows. Why was his heart breaking again?

“Okay,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

Damen lay near the edge of the bed, leaving no space for Laurent to sit. So, Laurent slowly lowered himself to the floor, feeling slightly weak in his knees, and leaned his back against the bed. Damen’s hand let go of him and fell heavily on the edge of the mattress. He was already asleep. Laurent sat there without making a sound, and listened to Damen’s steady breaths for a long time before quietly leaving the room.

***

Laurent did not sleep much that night. He left his door half-open, so that he could hear if Damen was sick again later in the night. As hours passed and the sky lost its darkness slowly, Laurent forced himself to stay in bed past sunrise, despite knowing that sleep was a long lost cause. When frustration finally overpowered his patience, he kicked the blanket away and got to his feet. Walking to the kitchen, he patted down his hair that had frizzed after an entire night of rolling in bed, and drank a cold glass of water at the kitchen table. He sat there, right leg shaking uncontrollably, and glanced at the clock every ten minutes. The clock hand was creeping close to 8:30 and Laurent couldn’t decide whether he should wake Damen or let him sleep.

The decision was made for him when the bedroom door opened minutes later. Damen appeared, sullen-looking and with dark shadows under his eyes. He was dressed for work, but his hair was still slightly damp from the shower. He tossed his necktie and jacket on the couch and walked to the kitchen sink for water.

Laurent’s eyes followed him. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve drunk snake venom and am going to be late to work,” he said, ill-temperedly, and downed a few pills with a single gulp of water.

Clearly, now wasn’t the time to ask about the past night, Laurent decided. “Maybe you should take today off?”

“Can’t.” Damen moved back to the living room and struggled to tie his necktie. “I have an important meeting today.”

Laurent did not argue. He leaned against the counter quietly, and did not ask if Damen wanted something to eat before leaving. He was well-acquainted with hangovers and the feeling of wanting to be left alone. But when Damen grabbed his car keys in a rush, Laurent pushed off the counter with a frown.

“Damen, don’t drive this morning,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “I’m sure crashing your car isn’t going to make your day any better.”

“I’m not going to crash my—” Damen snapped immediately, but his sentence was cut short by the persistent throbbing pain in his head. He sighed, and his glare softened under exhaustion. “You’re right. I’ll get a taxi. I’m going to be late, anyway.”

Laurent watched him slip into his shoes clumsily and open the door. “Take care.” He didn’t quite mean to say that out loud.

Damen, however, stopped. He turned, and Laurent caught a glimpse of sadness in his dark irises. “Laurent,” he called, his voice strangely vulnerable, “can we— can I talk to you tonight?”

Laurent looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Sure.”

Damen gave a small smile and nodded back before turning away and closing the door behind him. In the renewed silence, Laurent exhaled, feeling the lack of sleep and food catching up to him.

***

Unfortunately for Laurent, Nikandros did not forget about their lunch. Laurent found a text message from him with the address of a café as soon as he turned on his cell phone that morning. The café was nearby, a thirty minute walk, and Nikandros had asked to meet at noon. Laurent, however, decided to take his laptop and leave the apartment soon after showering. He settled in a small coffee shop near the address and cradled a cup of coffee for most of the morning while he made multiple appointments to visit some available apartments throughout the week. As noon arrived, he packed his computer again, and walked across the street to where Nikandros had wanted to meet.

The café was a cosy, sunlit place, with a modern interior and large glass windows. A few tables were occupied by people taking their lunch break from work. Laurent assumed Nikandros was doing the same. Nikandros noticed his entrance and waved a hand at him. Laurent gripped the strap of his backpack on one shoulder and walked over, sitting down across from the other man.

“You look,” Nikandros said, raising a careful brow, “tired.”

“Didn’t sleep last night.” Laurent leaned back in his chair. “But surely you haven’t dragged me here to talk about that, have you?”

Nikandros’s face was serious. “Why didn’t you sleep? Did something happen?”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “No, nothing happened. Just couldn’t sleep. I’m so glad you’ve never suffered from insomnia.” He folded his arms across his chest loosely. “So, you wanted to talk.”

“Yes,” Nikandros replied. “What’s going on with you?”

Laurent’s gaze grew cold at his accusing tone. “I told you last night: something came up, and I’m staying at Damen’s place until I figure out an alternative.”

“‘Something came up?’” Nikandros questioned. “What does that mean? Is everything all right?”

“No, everything is not all right,” Laurent gritted out. “But I’m figuring it out.”

They were interrupted by a waitress who stopped by the table to take their orders. Laurent, who had no appetite, ordered a coffee, and Nikandros followed suit.

Nikandros shifted in his seat after the two were alone again, and paused for a moment before asking, “And what’s going on between you and Damen?”

Laurent’s hands curled into fists. “ _Nothing_ ,” he said, keeping himself from grinding his teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say or what you think I’ve done, but you’re most likely completely wrong.” Laurent could feel his heartbeat speed up. He didn’t know why he was so angry. “If you actually have something to say, spit it out. If not, don’t waste my time.”

A muscle slid in Nikandros’s jaw, but he kept calm. He paused for a moment, as though trying to decide where would be the best starting point. “I’ve known Damen since before either of us could talk. He’s a brother to me.”

He paused again, prompting Laurent to lift a brow. “How profound. Is that all?”

“Just shut up for a minute, will you?” Nikandros sighed, shaking his head. “In the past years, he’s been through a lot. He’s been through more than he deserves,” he said, a furrow appearing between his brows. “He’s very good at hiding it when something’s wrong. But I’ve known him for long enough to know when he’s distressed. And I think something is wrong, now.” Laurent opened his mouth but was cut off by Nikandros, “I’m not trying to say this is your fault. Hell, I didn’t even know you were in Ios. I don’t know what’s going on in your life, and you refuse to tell me, so I don’t know, okay? And it’s not that I don’t trust Damen to make his own decisions. Not at all. But I can’t see him hurt anymore. So,” he said, “whatever it is that’s happening between you two, Laurent, if you don’t know what you’re doing—”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child,” Laurent hissed, his eyes dangerously narrow. “You think I’d intentionally hurt him? You don’t know anything.”

“I know he feels very strongly about you,” Nikandros said. “And about your history.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing.”

“You still love him, don’t you?”

Breath caught in Laurent's throat. The sound of his heartbeat overwhelmed his other senses. He didn’t hear the waitress walking towards them, and was startled when she placed a steaming cup in front of him on the table. Nikandros muttered a "thank you" before she stepped away. His eyes returned to Laurent’s pale face.

Laurent did not look away, though his voice was quiet when he replied, “Yes.”

What was the point of lying? Laurent was sick of it. Why would he lie to Nikandros, anyway? This had nothing to do with him. Laurent braced himself for whatever Nikandros was about to say. “How dare you,” perhaps, or “you’re the one who left him,” or—

“You should tell him.”

Laurent’s brows pulled together. There was no sign of mockery on Nikandros’s face. His voice was calm and genuine enough to catch Laurent off guard.

Laurent swallowed the biting remarks his mind had prepared. “I did,” he replied, “on Saturday.”

Nikandros nodded, approving. “And what did he say?”

Laurent shrugged. “He doesn’t feel the same way.” He added, “Which is understandable.”

“He said that?” A puzzled look captured Nikandros’s expression. “Oh... that’s— I thought that he—” Nikandros passed a hand over his beard, deep in thought. “Well... in that case, if that’s what he said, then… You are going to respect that, right?”

“ _Yes_ , Nikandros, for _fuck’s_ sake, I’m not going to make unwanted advances on him!” Laurent snapped, leaning forward in anger.

The people sitting at the table next to them shot the two a judging look.

Nikandos shook his head, his frown softening. “That’s not what I meant—” he said, suddenly looking regretful. “I’m sorry.”

“Look,” Laurent pleaded, his voice tangled in frustration, “I want him to be happy as much as you do. I wish him to be well. I’ve made mistakes regarding him and our relationship, I know. And I know that you know it, too. I know that you don’t trust me. But that was a long time ago. I was twenty two, I didn’t know better. I _should_ have known better, yes, but I didn’t. I do now.” He wasn’t going to let his voice tremble. He _wasn’t_. “I can’t change the past, but hurting him again is the last thing I want.” He inhaled deeply and swallowed his pride before continuing, “The reason I’m here is that I’ve made some horrible decisions in Arles. Everything fell apart all at once, and I had nowhere else to go. But I will fix it. I will figure it out. I just need some time." 

Silence sat heavily between them until Nikandros nodded. His expression had completely softened under an air of sympathy and concern that Laurent did not want from him. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. That was out of line,” he apologised and Laurent could see that he, too, was swallowing his pride. “Of course, I should’ve known that you’re going through some shit, too. Does it,” he asked, gingerly, “have to do with Torveld?”

Laurent looked down at the tabletop, and took a first sip of his coffee. “Yes, some of it. But that was coming for a very long time. Everything just came to a breaking point last week.” He put the cup back on the saucer and lifted his eyes. “I don’t really want to get into it, but I needed to get out… I really needed to get out.”

To Laurent’s surprise, Nikandros did not push. He seemed to have understood, which was something Laurent would think impossible ten years ago. But Nikandros had changed, like they all had. He was far more patient now, Laurent noted to himself, far gentler. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Nikandros understood, that he did not push any further.

Nikandros’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, “Listen, despite what you believe, I think of you as a friend, too, against all odds. I don’t wish to see you hurt, either.”

A smile threatened to curl around Laurent’s mouth. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He huffed. “Stop now before we both have an allergic reaction.”

Nikandros let out a short laugh, wrapping his hands around his warm coffee cup. “And, just so you know, if you ever need a place to stay, my door is open to you,” he said. “Plus, my fiancée is always nothing but happy to have houseguests. In fact, she’s a bit _too_ enthusiastic about houseguests,” he added, shaking his head. “Our house is generally open to anyone who’s passing through town. So, you know, we wouldn’t mind having you if you’re willing to mow the lawn and wash the dishes and clean the bathrooms.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, smiling. “How generous of you two,” he said. “I’d like to meet your fiancée sometime.”

“Yeah, I think you’d like her,” Nikandros smiled, and Laurent could swear there was a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “She’s great.”

Laurent could not help but let his heart grow warm at that. “I can see that whatever she is has rubbed off on you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Nikandros’s blush most certainly was not Laurent’s imagination. “Don’t fucking say nice things to me, fuck you.”

The two stayed to finish their coffee before leaving the café. Nikandros waved and said he had to head back to work. Laurent found an empty bench at a small green space nearby and sat down, enjoying the cool shade of a tree. If he had been told, a night ago, that he would feel better after speaking with Nikandros, he would have laughed. But somehow, he did feel better. Speaking with Nikandros had reminded him that he was lucky to have kept his friends, no matter how few, after so many years. He was also glad to know Damen had people like Nikandros who would always care for him. Not to mention, seeing how happy Nikandros was had somehow lifted his spirits, too.

An unwelcome interruption came in the form of his phone vibrating inside his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the caller ID. His back straightened immediately at the screen. He knew the number well: the call was from the mathematics department at the University of Ios. His fingertips began to prickle. He didn't let his mind wander. He only took in a deep breath, cleared his throat, and pressed the “Answer” button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and for your comments, all of which I cradle close to my heart. :') Also, SPOILER: The pining is about to end. I think we've all had enough. :D


	11. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it!

The afternoon passed in a haze. Laurent sat still on the bench under an old tree until his fingers began to grow numb around the cell phone he was still clutching. As though by nothing but muscle memory, he slowly rose to his feet and walked along the terra cotta pavement to the library. There, he lost track of time, again. He didn’t know how long he sat staring blankly at his computer screen before he decided he was far too hungry, sleep-deprived, and distracted to do anything productive.

The walk back to Damen’s apartment was almost a forgotten memory by the time he closed the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed in the guestroom, eyes sewn to the painting on the wall. Resisting the urge to pinch himself to ascertain he was awake, Laurent let himself fall back, head thumping down on the soft mattress. Blindly, he rotated his body until there was enough space for his legs.

The room was bright with sunlight. Laurent fell fast asleep.

***

It took him a moment to recognise where he was when he opened his eyes. The room was still bright, but less so than when he had fallen asleep. One of his arms had been stuck in an awkward position under him and prickled with numbness. He rubbed it with his other hand for a few moments before rising. There was a quiet rustling sound from outside the room, followed by footsteps and running water. That must have been what had woken him. He passed a hand over his face and got to his feet.

Damen was in the kitchen, restocking a spice cabinet. He was still in his dress shirt and slacks. Laurent let his feet drag loudly enough to announce his presence. When Damen turned towards him, Laurent noted that his face had much more colour than it did that morning.

“Hey.” Damen smiled his easy smile. “Did I wake you?”

Laurent shook the drowsiness away. “No,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly the truth. He stood by the counter. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, much better. Sorry about last night.” Damen gave him a guilty look. “Are you all right? You’ve never been much for day sleeping.”

“I’m fine. Just got really tired.” Laurent didn’t mention not having slept a blink the previous night. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his neck, feeling groggy. “I got a call from the university.”

Damen perked up immediately, eyes widening. “And?”

Laurent pressed his fingers over his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “They gave me an offer. A pretty good offer, actually,” he said, the words felt strange when he said them out loud. “Tenure track. Research grants. Better pay than I expected, honestly. I suppose Akielon unions have been hard at work in the past decade.”

“Laurent!” Damen exclaimed with a level of excitement that startled Laurent.

Laurent didn’t get a chance to react. Breath was pushed out of him when Damen’s arms wrapped around him, his hold tight enough to nearly pull Laurent up to the tip of toes. With his nose squashed against Damen’s shoulder, Laurent huffed out a laugh. _Idiot_ , he thought. Damen sometimes behaved remarkably like Sophie used to: both unaware of their size and strength when they were excited. Laurent found it endearing.

When Damen pulled back, his eyes were glassy with joy. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.” Damen squeezed his shoulders before letting him go. He, then, accused humorously, “Why don’t _you_ look happy?”

Laurent shrugged, a half-smile on his mouth. “The news hasn’t quite settled in my head. I… didn’t expect it.”

“Well, you’re the only one who didn’t.” Damen grinned, then glanced at his watch. “This calls for celebration. Do you want to go out for dinner?”

Laurent’s stomach grumbled angrily in response, reminding him that all that he had consumed in nearly two days was coffee and sugar.

Damen laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

***

They ended up at an old favourite spot: a small noodle shop in a quiet alley east of downtown with only outdoor seating, and absurd portions for low prices. The restaurant had been operating since before either of them were born, and a decade ago, Laurent and Damen used to eat there at least once a week. Damen admitted, while they worked their way down the bowl, that he had never quite stopped eating there. Laurent did not blame him; the food was delicious and comforting.

They talked about Laurent's offer, and his other plans which were mostly half-baked. ("I have to do the paperwork for my visa and background check, find a place, get a dog, upgrade my piece-of-shit laptop.") Damen insisted that Laurent should let Nikandros and Jokaste know about the offer, and Laurent agreed to do so. Damen, then, asked about Laurent's research when the topic was brought up, and listened attentively while Laurent tried to explain abstract mathematical concepts in simple terms. 

The sun was nearly setting when they both gave up trying to finish their food, accepting defeat.

Laurent swallowed the last bite his stomach could possibly hold, and set his chopsticks down, frowning at the half-full bowl of noodles. “This place is impossible.”

Damen chuckled, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Let’s take a walk to the beach,” he suggested. “I don’t think my stomach can handle digesting this without some help.”

The best thing about Ios was that the beach was always nearby, no matter which part of the city one was in. However, the best thing about _knowing_ the city was knowing exactly which beach would be the best spot at which hour of the day. And when it came to knowing Ios, Damen was an expert. They strolled past many stripes of sand crowded with people, loud and colourful, but far from serene. They walked eastward, until Damen pointed to an alleyway barely wide enough for an adult to pass through. At the end of it, a small opening between two buildings led to a small beach, clean sand and quiet, with no lamps to light their way. The two removed their shoes and socks before walking onto the sand, and sat at a safe distance from the water, just close enough to see the moonlight surf over every calm wave.

Since he was a child, Laurent had rarely gone to the beach during the day, as no amount of sunscreen seemed to keep his pale skin from turning to a painful shade of red under the sun. But Laurent loved the beach at night. The moonlight was far kinder to his skin, and the water was always pleasantly cool in the warm seasons. That night, the dark water glittered on the horizon and the air smelled of salt: the fresh, clear air of Ios in spring.

“It’s beautiful,” Laurent muttered to himself.

Damen heard him. “It is,” he agreed.

Laurent glanced over at Damen sitting beside him, but farther away than he normally would. He had wanted to talk, Laurent recalled from that morning. But Damen was quiet now, only gazing at the moonlit waters with soft brows.

Laurent turned his eyes away from him and back to the ocean. He breathed in, held it for a moment before opening his mouth to speak, “I saw the bottle of antidepressants in your bathroom a few days ago.” He saw Damen stiffen from the corner of his eye. He continued, calmly, “I didn’t mean to. I was looking for band aids. I’m really sorry.”

There was a moment of silence before Damen replied, “It’s okay. It’s not exactly a secret.” He pulled his bent knees closer. “It’s been a… rough few years, I suppose.”

Laurent heard the forced smile in his voice. He didn’t look up at him. “I’m in no position to ask you to tell me what’s wrong. But…,” he said, “you can talk to me, you know.” _Like you used to._ “I’m not nearly as judgmental as I look.”

Damen chuckled softly. “Yes, I know,” he said. “It’s just that… it’s not much of an interesting story.”

Laurent frowned, turning his head to look at him. “It’s not a story. I’m not asking for _entertainment_ , Damen. I’m asking how you are.”

Damen dropped his gaze, nodding. “I know.”

“I’ve been away for so long. When I saw the pills, I realised just how long it’s been. I’ve been assuming you were well all this time because... you look well. But that’s not the entire truth, is it?” Laurent dropped his eyes, too. “I’ve never asked you how you have been all these years, never asked what happened after…” _After I left._ “After university.”

He grew quiet, then. He had no right to ask. Whatever had happened to Damen, Laurent hadn’t been there for him when it had happened. Though, he wondered if there was anything he could have done anyway, given that his own grief had hardly left of him anything worth giving. Still, Laurent should have been there, and he hadn’t been.

Damen was the one who broke the silence. His voice was quiet. “For a while, every small problem felt unbearable when my dad died,” he began and Laurent held his breath, listening. “You know he was really sick for a year before he died. That was the first time when I really felt like I was losing all control over my life,” he said, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. “I grew up thinking family was the most important thing in the world, but… my own family never exactly acted like one. My father cheated on my mother and my mother died before I got to know her. When I still lived at home, the only person I thought I could look up to was my brother. But Kastor never liked me. To an extent, I understood, because my dad was not subtle about favouring me over him. Still, I thought I could make Kastor like me when I was younger. I thought, no matter what, if only I can show him that I’m not like dad, that I disagree with dad, Kastor would understand.” Damen’s bitter smile deepened. “But he never gave me a chance, not once. It got worse when dad got sick. Kastor became cruel to him, and I couldn’t stand it. Dad wasn’t always a good man: he had made his long list of mistakes as a husband and a father and a person, but he was old then, and sick, and weaker than I had ever seen him. And despite everything, he was my father and I loved him,” Damen admitted, his voice growing more vulnerable with every sentence. “I was at the hospital every day. I watched him grow weaker and weaker, and there was nothing I could do. They would poke him with needles until both his arms were purple and yellow with bruises. It got to a point that seeing needles and blood would give me a panic attack.”

Laurent drew his arms closer to himself. The bends of his own arms were bruised from the clinic last week. Laurent remembered the way Damen had grown pale at the sight of the needles poking past Laurent’s skin to draw blood. He ignored the way his heart clenched in his chest, and continued to listen attentively.

“But the worst part was his mental state. His memories were becoming more and more scattered. Some days, he didn’t know who I was. Other days, he would hold my hand for hours and tell me stories of the trips we had taken together when Kastor and I were younger. He would ask for Kastor on those days. I could see how my dad regretted the way he had treated him. He would ask me why Kastor didn’t come, and I had nothing to say. It was too late. I knew Kastor wouldn’t forgive him, but I thought he could at least visit every once in a while. Dad was dying. He wasn’t the same man as before. There was nothing I could do.”

Damen paused to swallow the lump in his throat. Laurent swallowed the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder.

“I called Kastor a few days before Dad died and begged him to come to the hospital, even for a few minutes. He did, and I wish he hadn’t,” Damen said quietly, brows knitting tightly together. “He came to visit one day. I was so happy to see him. I left him with Dad for a few minutes so they could talk. When I came back, Kastor was yelling at him. The last thing he said to Dad was how happy he was that Dad was dying.” Damen shivered, skin tight over his knuckles. “Dad died the day after. I broke Kastor’s nose at the funeral, which I regret now, but I couldn’t forgive him. I couldn't forget the image of Dad choking on his tears with an oxygen tank attached to him because he was so weak that he needed help fucking _breathing_. How could Kastor be so cruel to a man in that state?” Damen swallowed, and then his voice was quiet again. “But it was beyond that. It was mostly selfish. At that moment, I thought Kastor had ruined everything for me. A family was everything I had ever wanted and Kastor was the person who never let me have one. I resented him. He resented me, too. I just wanted a brother.”

Damen’s voice was a whisper when he said that. He looked up at Laurent with dark eyes, but turned his head away quickly.

“Anyway, a while after Dad died, I realised I needed help. I wasn’t really aware of it, but I was trying to hurt myself with everything I did. I did everything to an extreme. I worked out until I injured myself, I always drove past the speed limit, I went days without sleeping, I drank almost every night until I was sick. I lived like that for quite some time,” he said, shaking his head. “It was Jokaste and Nikandros who convinced me to see a psychiatrist. It made me realise how out of control my life had gotten. Since then, I’ve been trying to get myself back on track. Small things, you know: see a therapist, eat well, sleep enough, exercise, see friends — That’s all I can do, really. And I still fail some days.”

The waves licked at the sand, closer to their feet than before.

“I even reached out to Kastor after he got a divorce a few years ago. I felt terrible for punching him at our father’s funeral. I think he regretted a lot of things too, so he agreed to meet. That was the first time I saw his kids since they were born.” He smiled to himself. “It was a strange experience: seeing that I had _new_ family members. It suddenly made me realise how much I didn’t want to be an estranged uncle! It was such a strong feeling that I thought I could forgive Kastor for everything, let go of the past, start fresh. Kastor needed help taking care of his kids, too, so it sort of worked out.”

Damen sighed before continuing, suddenly sounding exhausted. “Then, last year, he decided to sleep with Jokaste. Jokaste and I had already broken up, so it wouldn’t matter, but Kastor didn’t know we’d broken up.” He huffed out a tired laugh. “It was ridiculous, almost comical. I really don’t understand him. Why would he do something like that? I still can’t help but think the reason he does such things is to hurt me. Maybe I’m overreacting, but that really upset me. He’s my brother… Why does he— How many times am I supposed to lose him?” He exhaled, running his fingers through his hair, and shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t really talked to him since. I still babysit the girls every once in a while, but I haven’t seen much of Kastor. I just don’t want Ida and Ella to grow up in a broken family like I did.” He puffed out another breath of laughter. “I guess I’m doing a shitty job.”

“That’s not true,” Laurent said, looking at him. “Your nieces love you. You’re _not_ doing a shitty job.” The certainty in his voice almost surprised himself, but he meant every word. “And although I don’t approve of all your personal sacrifices, you’re still holding your family together.” When Damen raised his eyes, Laurent kept his gaze. “You should be proud.”

Damen nodded, although the trace of doubt did not disappear from his eyes. The foamy sound of the waves carefully flooded the silence. Damen chewed on his lower lip as he made up his mind.

“Laurent?” he called.

“Yes?”

“About Saturday night...”

“You don’t need to explain,” Laurent cut him off. “I told you: I understand. It’s perfectly all right. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You’re wrong.”

Laurent’s brows pulled together. “Excuse me?”

Damen only smiled. “You’re wrong about how I feel.”

Laurent’s frown deepened. His heart began to feel watery. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Damen shifted in his spot so that it would be easier for him to face Laurent. “In the past years, I never — not once — entertained the idea that you still loved me. Not after what I did to you.”

Laurent’s heart beat in his ears. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You called me. When Auguste died,” Damen replied. “You asked me to come to Arles.”

There was a sharp blade cutting the invisible strings that held up heart’s heart in his chest. With each thread snapping, the organ dropped a bit lower. Laurent remembered it far too well. The memory disrupted his night sleep far too often. Damen was the only person he had called then. The only person Laurent had ever begged for help. _Damen, please, just— just for a few days. I don’t know what to do._ He shouldn’t have done that. It was unfair, almost cruel. It wasn’t Damen’s fault. How could he possibly think it was?

“That was six years ago,” Laurent’s voice was strained, “and quite presumptuous of me to call you like that. It was ridiculous to ask you to come all the way to Arles for me out of the blue. I wasn’t thinking— wasn’t _able_ to think. I shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to come to Arles. I wanted to be there for you. But,” Damen’s figure somehow looked smaller than a moment before, “what I wanted more was to hurt you.” Laurent almost flinched, confused, but Damen continued, “When you left, it felt as though it was the end of the world. I’d never felt so helpless. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought I would have much more time with you. I didn’t expect it to end so… suddenly. I was angry, in a way I had never been before. So, when you called, when I realised you needed me… the first thing that came to my mind was that… now I could hurt you as much as you did me.”

The white noise from the waves was too loud in Laurent’s ears. “Damen—”

“I have never hated myself more. The person I became at that moment… I will never forgive myself for it. I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness, either. I never really planned to tell you any of this, but the other night you said— said you loved me. Do you,” he swallowed, “really feel that way?”

Laurent’s stomach hurt. His bent knees were stiff as wrought iron. “My memories of you since Auguste’s death are nothing but your being kind to me. _That_ is the kind of person you are.” There was a cutting edge to Laurent’s voice that hurt his own throat. “That phone call is insignificant.” He wasn’t ready to admit otherwise. Because even if wasn’t insignificant, Damen could not possibly be so stupid as to blame himself for it.

“It’s not insignificant,” Damen said softly. He sucked in a breath and raised his eyes, voice still soft. “Laurent, I love you.”

Laurent felt the next wave wash over him, soak him whole with its coolness, turn his body into water. He had to draw in his knees to keep the pieces together. He pressed forehead against his kneecaps and squeezed his eyes closed. He had to keep the pieces together.

“But you said—”

“I said the timing wasn’t great,” Damen said, nodding. “You just got out of an abusive relationship. I barely know what I’m doing with my life. Circumstances are far from ideal. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

“You—” Laurent’s mouth was too dry, “you should think about it more before you say something like that.”

Damen smiled, and shook his head. “I don’t doubt how I feel about you. I’ve loved you for fucking ever. I don’t need to think any more about it. What we do need to think about, though, is what that means for the both of us, and… what we want to do about it.”

Laurent’s neck prickled. He peered at Damen. “And what do _you_ want to do about it?”

“I want to—” The lump in Damen’s throat bobbed, his profile sharp as ever. “I want to give us another shot,” he said, and added quickly, “only if you’d like, of course. Despite everything that’s gone wrong in my life, I— I think I would be a better partner now than I was a decade ago. I've been acting stupidly most of my life but with you, I'd never— never take it lightly. I wouldn't say this if I didn't mean every word and— and— we don’t have to, obviously. If you prefer to never talk about this again, I will understand. But if you would give me another chance, I think— I think—”

Laurent’s laughter cut through Damen’s babbling, silencing him immediately. Laurent pressed the back of his fist to his own mouth and raised his head to see Damen’s wide, trembling eyes. Damen's Adam's apple bobbed again, nervously, clumsily. He suddenly looked far younger than he was. Laurent could not hold back another quiet chuckle.

“You’re an idiot,” Laurent said, and let himself fall back onto the soft sand, unconcerned about having to wash the grains from his hair later that night. He unbent his knees, let them stretch towards the water. His exhale felt like the first breath he had taken in the past ten minutes. He could feel his lungs untangling, his heart returning to where it belonged. “But I guess I am one, too.” The silver light of the moon peeked from under a cloud. It was beautiful. Laurent grinned, turning his head to lift a brow at Damen. “Are we too old to be boyfriends? ‘Partner,’ you said?” He watched as Damen’s shoulders relaxed.

Damen let out a huff of laughter. “To be honest, I can’t give a single shit about what you would call us.” He pressed a flat palm to his chest. “I’m a bit too busy trying not to throw up my heart, in case you haven’t noticed,” he teased.

Laurent smiled. He wondered why his own heart had all of a sudden become as calm as the sky above them. He wondered, for a moment, if he was still asleep in the guestroom of Damen’s apartment. But the sand was pleasantly cool under his head, and the waves were incessant in their serenity, and Damen was smiling back at him, his form too solid, too beautiful to be a dream.

“So,” Damen began, his voice calm again, “would you like to try?”

Laurent did not look away. “Yeah,” he replied, “I’d like to try,” he smirked before adding, “ _partner_.”

Damen rolled his eyes, but his smile was bright enough that Laurent did not look up at the moon for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	12. Slow Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm very sorry for the late update. I hope you are all well! Thank you very much for all your comments - I love talking with you in the comments and I will get back to you as soon as I can! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

The paperwork was just as cumbersome and time consuming as Laurent had expected. He spent much of the next week in the library or on Damen’s balcony, hunched over the table to read what seemed like hundreds of pages of forms and agreements. Once, he almost set a sheet of paper on fire by accident when a lit cigarette fell from his fingers on the table. After that incident, he decided he would not smoke as long as the tabletop was covered with paper forms.

Damen’s routine remained more or less the same. He spent most of the day at work and the gym, and most nights at home. He was surprisingly less outgoing than Laurent had expected, a stark contrast to how he used to be when they were younger. It made Laurent wonder if Damen was staying only to keep him company — which was entirely unnecessary — while he fumbled through folders to find the right document and fill out the right form. Damen reassured him that wasn’t the case. These days, he said, he hardly preferred anything to a relaxing night at home.

Damen liked to cook and did so often, making dinner at home most nights of the week. Laurent had assumed the responsibility of cleaning the dishes. They usually chatted after dinner on the balcony if Laurent was not working, or watched television on the couch. The routine came to them naturally and conveniently, as though they had been doing this for years.

(Well, they _had_ done this before. Although, back in university, they hardly ever went to bed before two in the morning and rarely spent the evenings at home. Their place was half as large as this and twice as messy. There was also Sophie, silly and sweet and always at Laurent’s heel.)

The first time they kissed since their conversation at the beach was at seven in the morning, when Laurent was by the door, heading out for his visa appointment at The Office of Immigration Services. Damen was not yet dressed, and his hair stuck out in every direction. He was still holding his coffee mug in one hand when his free fingers hovered near Laurent’s cheek, barely brushing against his skin.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, not hesitantly, but with a voice that was ever-so-slightly too quiet.

Laurent pulled him down in an instant to press their mouths together, immediately wondering why it had taken them so long. When they parted, they were both smiling.

“I’m going to be late.” Laurent said, mostly to remind himself, as his hand was having trouble leaving Damen’s shoulder.

The next time they kissed was the following day, after dinner. Laurent was sitting on the couch, reading a recently published paper he had printed out because his eyes burned furiously from staring at the computer screen all day. Damen joined him after making tea, and decided to lie down on the couch, dropping his head on Laurent’s lap with no warning.

“Ow,” Laurent protested half-heartedly, “your head is as heavy as a bag of rocks.” He flicked Damen’s forehead gently before resting his hand on Damen’s chest. Damen’s fingers soon rose to wrap around Laurent’s hand, holding it there.

Laurent looked down at him, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to focus on what he was reading as long as he could feel Damen’s heartbeat under his palm. And with the way Damen was looking at him from under his thick lashes, there was little chance Laurent was going to move from his spot any time soon, even if the weight of Damen’s head was to numb his leg.

“What?” he asked after a few moments of holding Damen’s gaze.

“Nothing.” Damen smiled. “I just can’t believe my luck.” His grip on Laurent’s hand tightened, his heartbeat strong. “Kiss me?”

As though only waiting to be asked, Laurent leaned down to kiss him, leaving the stapled papers forgotten on the arm of the couch. It was an awkward position for Laurent’s spine, but Damen was smiling against his lips, and who was Laurent to take that away. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, digging into Damen’s cheek, but Damen only laughed, raising one hand to Laurent’s cheek. Laurent did not pull away until his neck began to ache.

They watched TV afterwards, their fingers still intertwined. A documentary about architecture was on that turned out to be more interesting than either had expected.

Laurent’s leg was growing numb, as he had expected. He did not move a single centimeter until the program was over and Damen sat up.

Later that night, after an hour of trying and failing to fall asleep, Laurent grabbed his pillow and, seeing the light from under Damen’s door, found himself knocking.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” He asked with a rather formal voice to mask the sheepish question.

Damen blinked at him. He was sitting in the middle of the bed, under the blanket and with his laptop on his lap. The night lamp was on, a yellow ball of light at the bedside.

“Of course,” Damen replied, rearranging himself to one side of the bed to open up space for Laurent.

The mattress sank under Laurent’s weight, warm and welcoming. Laurent propped his head on an arm, facing the other man. “What are you doing?” he asked with a curious nod towards the computer, wondering what Damen was typing away late at night.

“Writing my speech for Nikandros’s wedding.” Damen snickered. “It’s hard to choose my anecdotes because I have too much dirt on him.”

A grin crept up Laurent’s mouth. “I find that hard to believe about our ever-so-honourable friend.”

“The stories are funny _because_ he’s so honourable.”

Laurent smirked, imagining Nikandros’s face when his best man revealed his most intimate secrets. Unfortunately, Laurent knew that Damen himself was too honourable — and too good a speaker — to say anything that would actually embarrass Nikandros.

He shook his head when Damen asked if the light bothered him, and turned away to his side to get comfortable. He was still awake when the clicking of the keyboard stopped. Damen’s weight shifted on the bed in slow, quiet motions, and with another click, the room lost all its light. The sheets rustled as Damen lay down with a soft sigh. Then, there was only silence.

Laurent opened his eyes. The light of the street below streamed in dimly from the half-open curtains, bright enough for the eye to see. Laurent looked at the plain wall decorated with photographs, and remembered that he and Sophie were in one of them, though without his glasses, he could not make out which one.

Behind him, Damen rolled to his side, inched closer, and Laurent wondered if he was already asleep before Damen’s arm wrapped around his waist, warm chest pressing at his back. Laurent’s breath caught in his throat when a kiss was pressed to his shoulder. Damen did not move after that, and his breath began to even out, tickling behind Laurent’s ear.

An unwelcome weight began to drape over Laurent’s chest, tightening around his heart. He did not know where it came from or why, but it felt like fear. He suddenly feared that if he moved, if he breathed any louder than he was, Damen’s arm would unwrap from around him, the warmth would disappear, and so would this room and the photographs on the wall. He feared that if he shifted even a little, the dream would end, and he would open his eyes to a wallpaper covered in delicate raspberry brambles. If he woke up now, the bed would be cold again, and it wouldn’t be Damen’s arm, but someone else’s that was around him.

He squeezed his lids shut as soon as he felt a hot burn prickle under his lids and clenched his jaw tightly enough that his teeth began to hurt. The images were even clearer behind closed lids. The more he tried to push them away, the more vivid they became. So vivid that he could count every little leaf on the wall, could feel Torveld’s breath against his neck—

“Laurent?”

Laurent’s eyes opened with a gasp at Damen’s voice. Damen’s arm had moved, his fingers now clasped Laurent’s shoulder, pulling to turn him around.

“Are you—” Damen’s eyes widened when he saw Laurent’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Laurent’s voice was hoarse, his throat tight.

Damen was leaning up against an elbow, hand heavy on Laurent’s shoulder. “You’re— Are you crying?”

Laurent frowned. He rubbed roughly at his damp eyes. “No,” he replied, plausibly, he thought. His cheeks were dry. “I’ve been reading too much today.” He kept rubbing. “My contact lenses have been a bit irritating too, lately.” His heart beat uncomfortably fast in his chest. He pushed down on the mattress, sitting up. “I’d better get back to the other room; I’m keeping you awake.”

Damen grabbed his forearm before Laurent could slip out of the bed. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Laurent did not turn to face him. The room was dark, but not dark enough. “Nothing, really,” he said, because it was true. _Nothing is wrong and my stupid mind is playing games with me_ , he thought bitterly. Damen’s thumb gently rubbed his wrist, as though asking again: _what’s wrong?_ “I have bad dreams sometimes,” he said, quietly. “Now— Sometimes— I have them when I’m awake. I think about Arles, and _him_ , and the stupid wallpaper and—” He let out an exhale, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Go to sleep.”

Damen, however, did not let go. When Laurent finally turned his head, he saw an expression in his brown eyes that was familiar. “Don’t go,” Damen asked. “Please.” His arms opened for Laurent, and Laurent returned to bed before his mind could convince him otherwise. Damen embraced him with no hesitation, holding him close. “You’re safe here.” Damen whispered against his hair. Laurent swallowed hard. The cruel heat slid back under his lids. “I’m so glad you’re here, Laurent.”

Laurent’s hand ran up Damen’s back, holding on.

***

It didn’t take long until Laurent realised specific little things had begun to upset him. When it first happened, he was at the grocery store, looking at a shelf of pasta sauces when he felt an unexpected hand on his shoulder. He jumped, startled, and dropped his grocery basket.

A small, elderly woman with snow white hair smiled at him. “Sorry, love, would you hand me one of those jars?” With an unsteady finger, she pointed to the shelf that was too high for her to reach.

The thrum of Laurent’s heartbeat was so loud inside his head that he barely heard her voice. He tried to breathe, confused as to why his throat was closing up. His fingers trembled when he handed the woman a jar from the higher shelf. Then, he strode out of the store as quickly as he could, forgetting his basket altogether.

Only a few days later, it was a car that covered Laurent’s palms with cold sweat. It was jet black, as clean and polished as a car could get, the same model that Torveld drove. The car parked by the sidewalk and stopped Laurent in his tracks. He felt numb all of a sudden, wide eyes growing blurry. He tried to breathe, and realised that he couldn’t. The driver who exited the car was a young man, clean shaven and with light brown curls. A stranger. Laurent looked away and swallowed a breath. He could not remember how he managed to get his legs to move.

The incidents bothered Laurent enough that he determinedly tucked them away in the back of his mind and did not speak a word about them.

***

It was Damen this time who knocked on Laurent’s door minutes after they had both supposedly retired to bed.

“Is there a reason we’re sleeping separately?” Damen asked while he stood in the doorframe. His hair was already bed-mussed. “Come sleep with me,” he said and added quickly, “if you want.”

Laurent huffed out at the clumsy invitation, but grabbed his pillow and slipped out of the bed, nonetheless. Damen’s bed was far more comfortable, in ways that had nothing to do with the quality of the mattress. It had everything to do with Damen cuddling close to him, close enough that Laurent could smell the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. It had everything to do with knowing that he could tilt his head up and kiss him on his lips.

“Nikandros invited us for dinner this Saturday,” Damen said sleepily against Laurent’s hair.

“To poison me?”

“His murderous tendencies haven’t been quite as strong recently.”

“I’ve noticed,” Laurent replied. “He’s happy.”

“He’s happy,” Damen agreed, and his lips brushed against Laurent’s temple in a soft kiss.

Laurent fell asleep faster than he had in days, and did not wake even once throughout the night.

When he opened his eyes again, the first rays of sunshine were already beaming through the window, casting a warm, tingling patch of light over his bare neck. He rubbed his eyes and licked his chapped lips. The early morning air was cool where the sun wasn’t touching his skin. He turned onto his back. The weight of the blanket shifted around him, brushing against his groin, and that was when he noticed it.

_Fuck_ , he thought, his eyes now fully open. Waking up roused had been a rare occasion for him since his teenage years had passed. And when it did happen every once in a while, it was nothing but an annoyance to have to take care of first thing in the morning. With frustrated fingers, he rubbed his eyes again, deciding to leave the room to quickly masturbate in the shower and be done with it.

He was about to rise when Damen let out a soft groan next to him, frowning above a stripe of light that had landed on his eyes. As Laurent made a mental note to close the curtains next time, Damen squirmed closer, tipping his head forward until the light was no longer on his face.

Laurent lay still, watching him for a moment, but Damen was fast asleep on his side, breathing slowly and quietly with a cheek sunk into the pillow. Laurent thought, absurdly, that he had never seen such long eyelashes on a man before. Damen’s cheeks and jaw were shadowed with a hint of a stubble. His black curls astray on his forehead and around the curve of his ear.

Laurent’s eyes traveled lower, following the line of his neck to his muscled shoulder and side, and wondered, bitterly, why Damen wore t-shirts to bed. Damen’s hand was near his face, long fingers half curled between their pillows. If Laurent craned his neck only a little, he could take the small finger into his mouth. Would that stir Damen awake? He thought of those dark fingers traveling across his own pale skin, between his thighs, perhaps, and— The thought formed a crease between his brows.

He wanted to get up and out of bed, he really did. Maybe he was not yet fully awake. Maybe it was the lethargy of sleep that overpowered all impetus. But his eyes refused to tear away from Damen’s sleeping figure. The relaxed curve of his brows, his full lips, slightly parted and pink, welcoming.

Laurent’s hand traveled down his own stomach, tracing his waistband momentarily as he watched Damen’s face. The first touch made him suck in a breath. His palm was cold against the sensitive skin when his fingers wrapped loosely around his hard cock. He watched the ever so slow rise and fall of Damen’s side, and matched each stroke to every breath.

He had half a mind to slip his free hand under Damen’s t-shirt, and pull it up to reveal as much skin as he could. He wanted to run his fingers over the line of dark hair that ran down Damen’s chest. He wanted to slide a leg between Damen’s and push close, until he could feel the other man’s hardness against his own. Would Damen be hard if he pulled the blanket from his waist now? Would he be as warm and heavy as Laurent felt?

Laurent rarely indulged in masturbation. He thought of it as an act that was meant to be quick, over in a matter of minutes, and preferably done in the shower to prevent a mess. This felt different, Laurent realised, as he let his lids flutter closed and bit into his lip to keep himself from making a sound. This felt like a luxury he was allowing himself, doing this in Damen’s bed, with Damen’s sleeping form next to him. He shivered with pleasure, brows pulling close. This felt better, much better. And soon, it felt good enough that he doubted he could stop, even if he wanted to.

He tightened his grip slightly, and opened his eyes to see the black eyelashes he wanted so badly to flutter against his skin.

What he saw was a pair of brown eyes, open, staring back at him.

His hand came to an immediate halt, heart pounding in his chest. He felt blood rush to his face until his cheeks burned. “How long?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Not long enough, clearly.” Damen’s voice was deep with sleep, the corner of his mouth wickedly curled. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Laurent groaned, drawing his hand out of his pajama pants under the blanket. His entire face felt as though it was on fire. It made Damen chuckle with delight. He squirmed closer until he was sharing Laurent’s pillow, and pecked him on a flushed cheek.

“Please don’t stop,” Damen asked and watched Laurent’s face turn a deeper shade of red. “Or,” he suggested, splaying a hand on Laurent’s chest, “do you want me to touch you?”

Laurent felt his breath shudder on its way out of his lungs, under Damen’s palm. “I—” He swallowed, turning his head to face the other. “Yes.”

And when Damen leaned in to mouth at his neck, all he could do was let his head fall back and feel the hand on his chest travel lower, pushing the blanket out of the way. He lifted his hips to let Damen pull down his pajama pants, just enough to free his leaking cock. The first brush of fingers was soft against the his length. It made Laurent gasp loudly. He looked down at where Damen’s hand met his skin, teasing his flushed cock.

Damen, too, was looking down, admiring what he saw with every brush of his thumb. “Fuck,” he whispered, “that’s hot.”

“Hurry up, will you?” Laurent demanded, impatiently.

Damen did not need to be told twice. He thumbed some precome down, and began to stroke, slowly and meticulously until Laurent closed his eyes. His fingers curled around Damen’s forearm, desperate to touch his skin.

“Slower,” he said weakly, and Damen’s hand slowed. Laurent’s back arched into the touch. “No, a little faster.”

Damen chuckled, and kissed the shell of his ear. “Make up your mind.”

Laurent rolled to his side, facing Damen. “Keep going,” he breathed. His hand found its way to Damen’s crotch and found the hardness he had wished to find. He pressed against it, and basked in the way Damen’s lips parted to suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t stop.”

“ _Laurent_.” Damen’s voice was strangled, and Laurent pressed harder. “Laurent, please.”

The first stroke made Damen moan his name again, and Laurent thought maybe he could come from that alone. He tightened his grip. Damen fit so perfectly in his hand, so thick and warm and hard for him that Laurent had half a mind to praise the man for it. He paced his strokes to the movements of Damen’s hand, finding a rhythm, his own breaths growing shallow.

“Yes,” Damen sighed, “gods, yes, just like that.”

Laurent shivered, feeling the wetness at the tip of his own cock. Damen had always been the vocal lover between the two of them, but Laurent had never heard him sound quite as desperate before, quite as close to climax from the very first touch. Their hands began to move faster in perfect harmony, until Laurent couldn’t hold back the occasional noises of pleasure that escaped his throat, couldn’t keep his eyes open even though he wanted to watch the way Damen’s eyebrows pulled together sweetly when he was nearing an orgasm.

Damen came first, spilling hot over Laurent’s hand. It made Laurent’s breath hitch. His head fell forward into Damen’s chest, hips thrusting into Damen’s fist shamelessly. Before he knew, he was pushed over the edge, his clean hand gripping the fabric of Damen’s sleeve and his breath thick in his throat. Damen stroked him through it, whispering encouragements Laurent couldn’t make out. When the shuddering came to an end, streaks of white had painted the teal silk sheets and Damen’s bronze hand.

Laurent exhaled. “Fuck.” They were both panting for breath. “That felt good.”

“It felt amazing,” Damen corrected, though the dazed look in his eyes spoke for itself. “It always feels amazing with you.” He kissed Laurent then, closed mouth, not wanting to subject him to his morning breath, though Laurent did not care.

It was the sound of Damen’s morning alarm that broke them apart, too soon for Laurent’s liking.

Damen groaned with discontent as he reached over to turn it off. “What if I call in sick?”

“Then you’ll be home alone,” Laurent replied, rolling to his back again. “I’ve scheduled a few house tours today. I’d better move early now and settle in before the semester starts.”

“Oh,” Damen said quietly. A strange expression flashed over his face — something pained, akin to disappointment. But before Laurent could wonder what it was, a half smile had wiped it away. “Well, what do you say we finish this tonight?” he asked, pulling his t-shirt over his head to clean both their hands and stomachs. “It’s Friday. We can spend the whole night making love.”

Laurent arched a brow and huffed out. “How can you say ‘making love’ with such a straight face?”

“What’s wrong with ‘making love’?”

“I don’t like euphemisms.”

Damen gave him a look. “What, you prefer ‘fucking your brains out’?”

Laurent smirked, shrugging with a raised brow.

Damen laughed as he threw the shirt on the floor. “When did you turn so callous?”

Laurent reached up to steal one last kiss before they both rushed to the shower. Under the warm water, Laurent found himself wondering if he should make proximity to Damen’s apartment a criteria for finding his own place.


End file.
